


Forever is Composed of Nows

by ChubbyHornedEquine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), 6000 years of slow burn? more like 60k words, After the church, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crepes, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley is a GOOD plant parent and I will hear NOTHING ELSE on the matter, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley takes credit for y2k panic, Crowley's never eaten an oyster, Feels, Goodbye Daisy, Heavy Angst, How scandalous, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Loss, Metaphysical Intimacy, Mutual Pining, NANNY GODDAMN ASHTORETH IS MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oysters, Pining, Red Dwarf References, Reginald Two, Saturday Morning FunTime, Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), Schrodinger's wings, Songfic, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), a human flirts with aziraphale, and it goes about how you'd expect, aziraphale is actually a bastard, bare wrists, but only chapter 15 if i'm being honest, but there will be comfort, but to be fair the mutual pining doesn't begin until like chapter 13 lmao, canon compliant except where it's not, character tags will get updated as they appear in the story, create something beautiful, crowley has opinions on shakespeare, dagon is a smeghead, daisy is doing wonderful good for her, damp is wetter than moist, don't get your hopes up tho cause there's more burn and it's still so very slow, eventually, fake dating? in MY fic?, fellas is it gay to sit on a bench and give your crush gifts?, he wasn't really using them, human incarnate, if not now then when, if you like - Freeform, it's more likely than you think, its not him, look theres going to be a lot of hurt before theres any comfort ok, loop of misery, not sure how else to tag this, respect Quacken or perish, slaps roof of fic- this baby can hold so much miscommunication, so many stars, sunlight and eyeliner, the church scene, the intent was there, these tags are getting out of control, why does puce taste green, you can rip crowley with black nail polish out of my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-06-10 19:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 89,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19513990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubbyHornedEquine/pseuds/ChubbyHornedEquine
Summary: After the war in Heaven, God didn't just cast out the Fallen Angels, they erased the memories of all those who remained loyal. If they don't remember what, or who, they lost then there's no chance of fraternization. Meanwhile, as part of their punishment, all the Fallen remember exactly what they lost. Crowley hopes he can help Aziraphale remember who they were to each other, however long that takes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off I'm just going to apologize NOW because this is gonna hurt and be so sad before it (hopefully) gets to its happy ending lol. SORRY IN ADVANCE.
> 
> This entire story was inspired by this fanart on Twitter: https://twitter.com/lnconceivable_/status/1144579897978834950?s=19 Honestly, I couldn't stop thinking about it and now here we are. So be sure to give the artist a like!
> 
> Update 7/8 - I edited the title. It's a quote from a Dickinson poem and I was on the fence on using the full line or a sort of abbreviation of it (I was originally using Forever is Now) but I think the full line suits it much better.

-The Garden-

  
On a stone wall that encircled a beautiful garden stood an angel and a demon. The demon watched the angel study his face, dread slithering its way up his spine.

He didn’t know him.

Oh God, he didn’t know him.

He knew, he knew of course, that all those who remained loyal had their memories wiped. Memories of their friends, their loves. But he’d hoped that somehow they would be able to beat it. That what they had was stronger.

The demon couldn’t stall any longer. “Crawly,” he said with a smile he hoped overshadowed the anguish he felt. Ripping his wings from his back couldn’t have hurt as much as this.

Crawly. That was his given name after The Fall. He didn’t know who got to name Fallen Angels. He didn’t think for a second that the Almighty cared enough to do it themselves. What he did know was that it wasn’t his True Name. It couldn’t be. All the angels had such beautiful names. Names that were powerful, that took up space, that tasted like stars and music and unimaginable possibilities.

He wondered what his name had been. Probably something that ended in -el, he mused. There were so many. Uriel, Gabriel, Alciel, Raziel, Ra… Something else with an ‘R’. It escaped him. Everything else he remembered in painstaking vivid detail. But not his name. That was the _one_ memory the Almighty had taken from him.

Damn them.

“Crawly,” the angel said.

The demon even remembered what he felt whenever the angel used to say his True Name. What power he possessed to have the same effect with such an atrocious misnomer.

The two talked for a while. It was easy. But then talking to the angel had always been easy. He’d given the humans his flaming sword because of course he had. The soft, kind, perfect fool. The demon had given them knowledge. A dangerous combination.

The demon didn’t want to get the humans in trouble, not really. But he’d been given orders and everything was still new and confusing and different. He wasn’t yet sure how the newly crowned Satan tolerated failure. He wasn’t sure how much farther he could fall and he didn’t want to find out. As for tempting them to eat the apple… well what _else_ would he tempt them with? A late evening frolic in the waterfall instead of an afternoon one?

But all of that had paled to the possibility of seeing his angel again. He knew he’d be here. He’d loved plants and nature, that was why he’d taken the seemingly pointless assignment of guarding an empty garden.

Not that the angel remembered that.

Empty garden duty should have been his own heaven on Earth. But the war happened. Then the humans came. And his angel was stuck watching a garden he no longer remembered his love for. The demon wished he could tell him. He wished he still had his books. But the knowledge of Heaven had been locked away after the rebellion and Hell surely didn’t have any literature. It was just as well. The demon didn’t think he could stomach reading anything if he no longer had someone to share it with.  
  
The two wondered if they’d made a mistake in their actions. The demon reassured the angel he could do no wrong, which he truly believed. He watched all worry drain from the angel at his words. He wanted to reach out to him but he hadn’t quite gotten reacclimated to having limbs. After The Fall his True State was cursed with a deformity; every Fallen Angel was. Except his was an entirely different form. A snake. When he’d managed to figure out how to shift back into what should have been his in-between state he took one look at his new eyes, his horrid black wings, and collapsed into a pile of writhing snake once more. And he stayed that way while Hell sorted itself out.  
  
“No,” the angel said, “it wouldn’t be funny at all.”  
  
No, he supposed not. Nothing seemed funny anymore. God help him. Or was it Satan now? Didn’t matter. Neither of them could help him. Could do anything about this hole that was eating him up inside. Satan knew nothing of love. He did once, that was what started the war. But it grew twisted and ugly. He’d forgotten what he was fighting to prove. And the Almighty… well, the demon wasn’t convinced they understood love at all. Otherwise why, why would they do this? What had the demon done to deserve _this much pain_? There was, of course, the possibility that the Almighty knew perfectly well what they were doing. Which was a level of cruelty the demon had only seen in the newly formed Hell.  
  
A drop of water hit the edge of a stone a few feet away. Both the demon and angel tensed.  
  
The first rainfall on Earth.  
  
Instinctively, the demon leaned closer to the angel, as he had so many times before. What if it was like the rains from the war? He saw what it did to the rebelling angels. Just as he thought he shouldn’t have leaned in, that despite everything he felt and everything he remembered, it _wasn’t_ like before, the angel spread one glorious wing over him, shielding him.  
  
“Thank you, Aziraphale.”  
  
“Of course,” he said. “There’s no reason we can’t be civil.”  
  
They watched the humans go off hand in hand.  
  
Slowly, like the softest wash of warmth, it dawned on the demon that the angel had never said his name and didn’t seem to question that the demon already knew it. He snuck a sideways glance at the angel. He stood straight and tall, he always did. Hands clasped at his front, a sure sign he was worried. They’d be behind his back otherwise. His brow was creased and the demon wanted to reach out and smooth it with his thumb. Another familiar, aching force of habit. His mouth was downturned just a little, in a small sort of pout. He didn’t frown, he pouted. And the demon used to tease him mercilessly for it. His gaze wandered to the curve of the angel’s nose. He couldn’t, if his cursed, immortal soul depended on it, explain why that was his favorite part of the angel’s face, but it was. The angel used to tease _him_ mercilessly for that.  
  
Looking at him like this, out the corner of his eye, he could see the spaces between as well. Glimpses of his True State. The smaller set of wings that sat at his lower back. The third, even smaller, pair that rested between his main wings. Golden veins ran through him, shimmering. Dozens of eyes constantly shifted across his surface. Opening, closing, opening again somewhere else. Always moving. The demon thought it spoke of the angel’s indecisiveness.  
  
They tried counting them once. Made it to forty-seven before the angel lost his concentration and they started shifting again. The only other time they came still was when he was angry. Truly furious. The demon had only caught a glimpse of it once, during the war.  
  
Finally, the demon’s eyes wandered back up, to his halo. A curl of blue flame that burned hot and white floated between his shoulder blades, cradled by the smallest set of wings. His fingers itched to reach up to the base of his own throat, where his halo had been. It used to burn a brilliant golden yellow.  
  
Despite the small size of the angel’s halo, the light of it was blinding. Bits of stardust glimmered at its edges, another gift from the demon that the angel would never remember. The blue of the halo’s flame matched the angel’s eyes.  
  
Holy Hell. Cursed Heaven.  
  
He was _beautiful_. He was so terrifyingly, hauntingly, achingly beautiful it robbed the demon of his breath. Left him weightless. It hurt in the most profoundly pleasant way.  
  
The rain was coming down in earnest now but it was clear it wasn’t dangerous. Droplets bounced and splattered on his feet. Surely the angel had noticed yet he kept his wing outstretched just the same.  
  
Suddenly the angel took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slow as his hands moved to a gentle clasp behind his back. The crease left his forehead, his face serene. He relaxed. Even with a demon at his side.  
  
Seeing this, despite every ounce of self-preservation in his body screaming at him not to, the demon known as Crawly felt the faintest spark of hope for he and his angel.


	2. Chapter 2

-MESOPOTAMIA, 3004 BC-

  
The boat seemed to be coming along nicely. It didn't look like it would fit two of every animal, great and small, but that's why Aziraphale was there. A quick miracle and everyone would fit quite nicely. He did hope he wasn’t expected to travel _with_ them. He glanced around; the crowd was getting larger. Just as he was beginning to think he might want to do this miracle and go, someone slid up right beside him, cheerfully calling him by name.  
  
"Crawly," the angel said.  
  
"So, giving the mortals a flaming sword, how'd that work out for you?"  
  
Why did he have to go and tell a demon of all people what he'd done? Heaven only knew how that information could be used against him. Although Aziraphale thought the demon seemed genuinely curious. There was a hint of a smile on his face, but it wasn't malicious or sarcastic or conniving or really even remotely demonic. It was almost friendly.  
  
"The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again," he said. It wasn't a lie, exactly. God _hadn’t_ mentioned it...after they asked about it the first time.  
  
"Probably a good thing," the demon said.  
  
Aziraphale watched him. Why was he here? What did he want? He wasn't the only demon to roam about the earth, causing trouble, _possessing_ people, wreaking general havoc, he was the only one to talk to him though. Every other demon he'd ever had the misfortune to come across, even in passing, was insufferable. They seemed to be compiled entirely of threats and rude gestures. But not Crawly. He was something else entirely.  
  
The angel hesitated before answering his question. Should he be sharing God's plans? Well...he'd find out soon enough he supposed. He kept his voice low as he explained, he didn't want to chance anyone overhearing.  
  
"All of them?"  
  
"Just the locals," the angel said.  
  
The demon looked around. He seemed...surprised. Aziraphale had thought that would be something a demon would revel in. But the look on his face said otherwise.  
  
"Noah,” Aziraphale continued, “his sons, their wives, they're all going to be fine."  
  
Secretly, a little blasphemously, Aziraphale wondered what made Noah so special. Why was he and his family chosen and none other?  
  
"But they're _drowning_ everyone ese?"  
  
Aziraphale nodded as he tried not to picture it.  
  
The demon was clearly surprised. He looked around once more.  
  
"Not the kids," he said. "You can't kill kids."  
  
Aziraphale kept his mouth firmly shut, only managing a quiet "Mhm". He was afraid if he opened his mouth he'd say what he was really thinking, really feeling, and those thoughts seemed to be surprisingly in-line with what a demon was thinking and feeling and he wasn't supposed to agree with demons.  
  
"Well, that's the kind of thing you'd expect my lot to do."  
  
It was, wasn't it? So why wasn't he more excited? More happy? More...demon?  
  
"But when it's done," Aziraphale said, "the Almighty's going to put up a new thing called a 'rain bow' as," he hesitated, "a promise not to drown everyone again."  
  
It sounded awful as he said it aloud.  
  
"How kind," Crawly said.  
  
"You can't judge the Almighty, Crawly," Aziraphale said, as much for himself as for the demon. "God's plans are--"  
  
"Are you going to say 'ineffable'?"  
  
Aziraphale swallowed. “Possibly,” he said in a quiet voice.  
  
Crawly called out, pointing to the fleeing unicorn.  
  
“Why are you here?” Aziraphale asked, unable to hide his curiosity any longer.  
  
The demon turned to him, “I don’t know. Big boat, lots of animals, big crowd, got my attention.” He seemed to study the angel a moment before asking, “Do you want me to leave?”  
  
“No, I, you can do whatever you like. I mean, you're not going to...do something demonic are you?”  
  
He sighed, looking away. “That's what I’m all about, isn't it? Demonic deeeeds.”  
  
“Well... aren't you?”  
  
The demon looked at Aziraphale, long and hard. The angel snuck a sideways glance, then another, unable to quite meet his unblinking eyes. When he did, finally, the demon held his gaze for a moment.  
  
“There's more to demons than you think, angel.”  
  
And in a blink, he was gone.  
  
His disappearing act had caught the attention of a few of the people surrounding them, forcing Aziraphale to make his own, less dramatic, exit.  
  
As he pushed through the crowd he couldn't help but think of Crawly's reaction to the flood. The surprise in his voice. The look in his eyes as he stared the angel down, like he was willing him to see...something. And then he called him 'angel'. He couldn't find offense in that. He _is_ an angel. But there was something to the way the demon had said it. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was half a thought, a word he sort-of remembered, but maybe only the first letter.  
  
Why was he convinced that letter was “R”?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little shorter than the first, but I think it still gets the job done. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

-Golgotha, 33 AD-

  
The demon made his way through the small crowd toward the only figure entirely in white. He slid in beside the angel and skipped straight past pleasantries.  
  
“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” That wasn’t fair and he knew it. He knew Aziraphale would take no more enjoyment in this than he would.  
  
“Smirk? Me?”  
  
“Well your lot put him up there.”  
  
“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly.”  
  
“Oh, I’ve changed it,” he said. Inwardly, he cursed. Now wasn’t exactly the moment he’d planned to tell the angel. Didn’t seem like the time or place.  
  
“Changed what?”  
  
“My name. ‘Crawly’ wasn’t really doing it for me, a bit too…squirming-at-your-feet-ish.”  
  
“Well you were a snake.”  
  
The demon very nearly responded with, “Not always” but managed to fight the urge. He hadn’t always been a snake. He’d had a glorious form just like all the other angels. But Aziraphale would only ever know him as the serpent now.  
  
“Crowley,” he said. And tried to ignore the little surge of pride when the angel gave an approving nod.  
  
It wasn’t terribly different from “Crawly”. Just a letter or two. He wasn’t sure if he was _allowed_ to change his given name. So he thought it best to not stray too far from the original. Besides, it made it a little easier on everyone else. At least it ought to, it’s really not that hard to adjust.  
  
“Did you uh, ever meet him?” asked Aziraphale.  
  
“Yes,” Crowley said. “Seemed a very bright young man.” He paused, unsure if he should admit to it or not. Then, “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Why? Why the Heavens _not_? He heard how people spoke of him, calling him the son of God. Weren’t they _all_ supposed to be The Almighty’s children? He didn’t know what had made young Jesus so unique, why he’d been singled out, he didn’t know what his future held for him, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.  
  
The awful hammering continued.  
  
It never was with the Almighty, was it?  
  
So he took him around the world. It hadn’t taken as much convincing as Crowley thought it would. No temptation at all. Just a friendly offer. He suspected Jesus knew what he was, what he had been, but he didn’t treat the demon any different. They’d laughed over wine on multiple occasions. He was good with wine.  
  
But what he said was, “He’s a carpenter from Galilee, his travel opportunities are limited.”  
  
The Aziraphale from before would have understood. He wouldn’t need to ask. He would have been right there with him. The Aziraphale of before had just a streak of mischievousness to him. Sometimes Crowley wondered if that, too, had been taken. If the Almighty stripped away everything that had made him who he was.  
  
Crowley asked him what Jesus had done. It was more to drown out the sound of the hammer and his wails than out of any real curiosity. It didn’t matter what he’d done. You can’t do anything right. You rebel, you’re punished. You speak in his name, punished. There’s no winning as a child of God.  
  
The angel left shortly after the cross was lifted, he couldn’t stomach it. The demon stayed. He felt he owed the man as much. He thought of their final night of traveling, when he brought him back home. Jesus had studied the demon for some time and just as Crowley was about to slink off he said, “You’re so full of doubt.”  
  
At first Crowley tried to brush it off with some snide remark but Jesus had only shook his head and said quietly, “So am I.”  
  
They sat together and had one last drink. Towards the end of the night Jesus asked him, “What are you afraid of?”  
  
And, for some reason, Crowley told him. He told him of his fears of being a demon. Of what that meant. What was he supposed to _do_. He told him how he never meant to fall. How much it hurt. He told him about Aziraphale. How with all the things in the universe that could go wrong his biggest fear was that the angel would never again see him the way he used to.  
  
And he cried.  
  
And Jesus held him.  
  
The demon looked up at the broken, bloody figure of a man and he wished he’d known. He would have held him instead. He would have let him cry. Crowley had eternity to cry.  
  
Sometimes it felt like he was going to do just that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest one so far! And with the most original dialogue/content! Yaaaaay~~~

-Rome, 8 Years Later-

Aziraphale studied the game board, making a careful decision before setting his piece down. He wasn’t _entirely_ sure he was playing it properly but whatever he was doing was rather fun. Humans had the capacity to be so, so awful, and then he would turn around and some beautiful piece of art or means of entertainment or infrastructure that benefited the whole of their community was being created! It made it hard to dislike them as much as his colleagues seemed to. It most certainly made it hard to stay away and watch passively.  
  
“What have you got?”  
  
Oh. Oh, he knew that voice.  
  
“Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable.”  
  
It was that demon he always seemed to run into. Well, not always. Four times in as many millennia wasn’t exactly frequent. But he would know that voice anywhere. Aziraphale cautiously made his way over to the bar. He’d never actually initiated a conversation with him before.  
  
“Crawly—Crowley?” Darn, he’d messed up already. “Well,” he said, trying to push through, “fancy running into you here.” He took a seat at the bar next to the demon, his mind scrambling to think of something to say. “Still a demon, then?”  
  
“What kind of stupid question is that,” Crowley snapped, “‘still a demon’? What else am I gonna be, an aardvark?”  
  
Aziraphale winced. That was, no he was right, that was a stupid question. He was awful at this. He swallowed and held up his mug, “Salutaria.”  
  
To his surprise, after a moment’s consideration, Crowley clinked his mug against his.  
  
That was good! That was progress. Aziraphale tried to think of a less idiotic question to ask. “In Rome long?”  
  
“Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?”  
  
“I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant,” he admitted. He didn’t _have_ to be in Rome. He wanted to be. There were so many things happening. “I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”  
  
“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley said.  
  
Aziraphale could hardly believe it. Never? That simply wouldn’t do. “Oh. Oh, well, let me tempt you to—“ The demon turned to him and Aziraphale realized his slip of the tongue. “Oh no. That—that’s your job, isn’t it?” He smiled nervously. He’d gone and messed up again.  
  
The demon, however, just took a sip of his drink and smirked at him. It wasn’t taunting or mocking. The angel couldn’t quite see his eyes, not through those things on his face—why was he hiding his eyes anyway? Either way, he thought he was getting better at reading the demon’s expressions and it looked like he was trying to hold in a laugh. A genuinely amused one, at that.  
  
Aziraphale knew he should probably get up and walk away. But there was something in that downturned little smirk that kept him in his seat. The demon couldn’t be all that bad…could he? Every time they’ve ever spoken he seemed upset at the way things were going with the humans. And he’d been so kind to that Jesus fellow. He was a bit of an anomaly, this Crowley. Aziraphale wanted to get to know him better, try and figure him out.  
  
“Really though,” he said, “would you…like to accompany me and-and try one?”  
  
Besides, if the demon was with him then he couldn’t be off causing trouble elsewhere. Surely Heaven wouldn’t object to that. Keep your friends close and enemies closer and all that, right?  
  
The demon studied him a while longer. Probably trying to work out what his motive was. Finally he said, “Alright.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Sure. Why not?”  
  
“Oh!” Aziraphale knew he was grinning, but he couldn’t help it. If he was at all honest with himself he also knew it had nothing to do with the idea of studying his enemy and everything to do with the idea of having someone with whom to share this. Someone to talk to. Traveling around and trying new dishes got a little sad when you had no one to turn to and discuss it with.  
  
“Well,” he said, “let’s just finish this and then we—“  
  
The demon scoffed and tipped back his mug, gulping down the contents. It was so uncouth and obscene and Aziraphale could not look away. Demons aren’t supposed to be beautiful. And he would never, ever use _that_ word to describe _this_ demon. But…for lack of a better word he was quite stuck on “beautiful”. He noticed it on the wall, and back at the ark, there was something about him, the way he held himself with a curious mix of hubris and, well, grace.  
  
“Done,” the demon said, looking at him expectantly.  
  
“Oh. Right.” Aziraphale turned away slightly, drinking down his own mug. It gave him an excuse to stop staring at the man. “Shall we, then?”  
  
“Oh, no, I paid for an entire jug and I’m going to drink it. Come on.” Crowley refilled his glass and then Aziraphale’s.  
  
“Yes…right.”  
  
The demon put back the second pour almost as quick as the first and then poured himself a third. He seemed intent on getting drunk for this. Aziraphale took his time with his own, shaking his head when Crowley offered to refill it.  
  
By the time they were done and on their way to the restaurant, Aziraphale was feeling pleasantly warm and not at all nervous about what he should and shouldn’t say and how to say it. Crowley didn’t seem much worse for wear besides it taking him an extra few seconds to stutter around a complete sentence. Which he didn’t do often because he seemed content to listen to Aziraphale ramble on about all the various food he’d tried.  
  
“And I have to say,” Aziraphale said emphatically, “the absolute best garum I’ve ever had was in a small town outside—“  
  
“Garum? Whazzat?”  
  
“It’s this delicious fish sauce! You really haven’t tried it?”  
  
“Uh-uh.”  
  
“Well, next time we’ll go to that town because it’s simply the best there.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Aziraphale felt an odd thump in his chest. He’d said “next time” without even thinking. Not only that, but Crowley had agreed without a moment’s hesitation. It shouldn’t be this easy to just while away the time with a demon.  
  
Oh God, what was he _doing_? He was going out for lunch with a demon! He could only imagine what Gabriel would say. Suddenly his reasoning of keeping the demon close for observation seemed ridiculous. There was no way Heaven would buy that.  
  
Well they didn’t need to _buy_ it, it was the truth.  
  
Wasn’t it?  
  
Aziraphale was still anxiously going in mental circles when they reached the restaurant and were seated. He glanced over at Crowley, who was staring right back at him.  
  
The angel offered a small smile, “Denarius for your thoughts?”  
  
“You sure you want to know what’s going on in this demonic mind of mine?”  
  
“Oh. It’s bad then, is it?”  
  
“Not at all, angel. Not at all.”  
  
Someone came by their table, set down two glasses and a plate with a few oysters on it.  
  
“Oy!” Crowley said as they turned to walk away. “Don’t leave your garbage, we’re sitting here!”  
  
Oh Lord. “I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale cut in, “please pay him no mind, from out of town.”  
  
The server gave Crowley a stern look before walking away.  
  
“Crowley! Really! Those are the oysters!”  
  
The demon’s entire face contorted into one of disgust as he leaned toward the plate. “ _This_?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
He sat back, “So…what you just, pick it up? Take a bite?”  
  
“Heavens no, you’ll crack your teeth. That’s its shell. No, you sort of, here, I’ll just show you.”  
  
“You’re going to put that in your mouth?”  
  
Ignoring him, Aziraphale made quick, practiced work of separating the meat from the shell and slurped it down. And oh, Petronius really did outdo himself this time, they were divine. “These are really something,” he said to Crowley, who was still staring only his look of disgust had slowly morphed into one of abject horror.  
  
“I…” he said slowly, “might actually vomit.”  
  
“Don’t be so dramatic.”  
  
“That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen. And I’ve-I’ve seen some things in Hell, believe me, and that was just—“  
  
“Oh, hush!” Aziraphale said automatically. Why did that feel second-nature? “Here,” he said, “try one.”  
  
“Oh no. No. I’m not eating that.”  
  
“You said you wanted to!”  
  
“No, I said I’ve never had one and you offered to tempt me and angel, there is nothing you could say that is going to get me to put that in my mouth.”  
  
“Well…” Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh and frowned.  
  
“Oy, hey, no, don’t do that! No pouting.”  
  
“What? I’m not pouting!”  
  
“You _are_. That’s what you do, you pout.”  
  
“How would you know?”  
  
The demon scoffed.  
  
“And besides, I do not. I am an angel—“  
  
“An angel who pouts.”  
  
“And _anyway_ , are you sure I can’t convince you? You came all this way.”  
  
“Nothing in the world could—“  
  
“Please? I was looking forward to hearing your thoughts. You don’t have to-to like them, it’s just, well,” he sighed, “no one else has shown any interest in these things.” It was true and he didn’t need to tell the demon that but there was something about him that left Aziraphale bare. He was starting to think the demon could ask him anything and he’d confess all of his secret doubts and concerns. “Please?” he asked again with a nervous smile.  
  
Crowley let out an annoyed groan. “Every. Time.”  
  
“Every time, what?”  
  
“Nothing. Alright, let’s have it.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes, yes. Now. Before I change my mind.”  
  
“Oh wonderful! Here, allow me.”  
  
Aziraphale worked his magic on the oyster and held it out to Crowley, who snatched it up, tipped it back and…immediately gagged. He clasped a hand over his mouth, the other clutching the empty shell. Aziraphale watched as he forced himself to swallow it down.  
  
“Oh dear... Are you alright?”  
  
The demon didn’t move.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
Tossing the shell aside, he grabbed his drink and guzzled it down. “You want to know my opinion, angel?”  
  
“…yes?”  
  
“I think we should serve these in Hell.”  
  
“Ah. That bad?”  
  
Crowley took Aziraphale’s cup and drained it as well, swishing it about in his mouth a bit. “Blagh,” he said, sticking out his tongue. “What could you _possibly_ like about these?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s got an interesting texture—“  
  
“’Interesting’ is not the word I’d use for it.”  
  
“Well, what do you prefer to eat?”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“Then what do you _do_ in your spare time here?”  
  
The demon shrugged, “Have a nap.”  
  
“A _nap_?” Unbelievable. He supposed he should be grateful. The prince of temptation and he spends his time napping. “All the world to-to explore and you nap? What could be appealing about that?”  
  
“Closing your eyes and ceasing to exist for a while? Everything.”  
  
“Oh you are just—oh!”  
  
He was smirking again, “Have _you_ tried it?”  
  
“Of course not. There’s so much work to be done.”  
  
“And oysters to choke on.”  
  
Aziraphale shot him a look which only made Crowley’s smirk grow.  
  
“You should try it. Have a nice, refreshing nap.”  
  
“Yes, I’ll just rest my head on your shoulder and doze off then?”  
  
He’d meant it flippantly, as a joke, but something shifted in the air between them as soon as the words left his mouth. Crowley’s smirk quickly melted away and was replaced with an almost pained expression.  
  
He wasn’t sure how, but he’d messed up again.  
  
“Crowley, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend y—“  
  
The demon pushed back his seat and stood. “You owe you me for that oyster, angel.”  
  
“Yes, of course, that’s understand—“  
  
Crowley tipped his glasses down, really looking Aziraphale in the eye and the angel knew he was about to threaten him with something horrid but all he could think was that he truly wished the demon didn’t hide those eyes of his.  
  
“I won’t soon forget it.”  
  
All Aziraphale could manage was a small nod.  
  
He watched Crowley leave. He wasn’t sure why what he said had upset him. Perhaps it was the idea of actually touching an angel. That made sense. He was a demon after all. Why in the world would he want to come anywhere near an angel?  
  
And yet…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a short one and since I don't feel like much happens, I'm going to post another chapter before the end of the night (and it'll be a special one)! Thanks for your patience!

-The Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD-

  
Crowley sat in the back of a stationary carriage, swinging his legs back and forth. Rumor had it Arthur was sending some champion to negotiate with him.  
  
Or maybe challenge him.  
  
He hadn’t been entirely listening to the human that brought in the report because this was _boring_. It turned out being a demon of Hell wasn’t the absolute worst. Little to no overhead. No micromanaging. He was pretty much free to do whatever he wanted so long as he could spin that it was in service of Satan. Which wasn’t hard to do. In fact, there were times where he needn’t do anything at all. Humans were a truly terrifying lot. Left to their own devices they’d probably carve their own staircase straight down.  
  
Still, it gave him a much needed distraction. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale since Rome and maybe…that was for the best. Every time he ran into him hurt more than the last. The angel really didn’t remember him and, after what he said in Rome, he was beginning to realize he never would.  
  
Crowley survived the Fall, he was surviving Hell, and Earth, but he wasn’t sure he could survive another interaction where the angel looked at him like a stranger. They’d come close, that meal, their conversations, down to the way he had pouted and Crowley ultimately gave in, it was so very much like before but it _wasn’t_.  
  
One of the humans near him starting lurking off into the fog. Someone was coming. He couldn’t hear a blessed thing through his stupid helmet.  
  
“-ello?”  
  
No. No way. What was he doing _here_?  
  
“Oh. Right. Um…hello.” Crowley hated that he could immediately visualize that small smile of his when he said it. “I was hoping to meet with the Black Knight?”  
  
The demon shuffled off of the carriage and made his way over. The angel wouldn’t recognize him. He didn’t remember him, that much was well established. Crowley would just need to make some vague threats and stalk off.  
  
“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death.”  
  
Aziraphale made a face.  
  
Shit.  
  
“Is that you under there, Crawly?”  
  
“ _Crowley_ ,” he corrected, lifting his visor.  
  
“What the hell are you playing at?”  
  
The answer was sort of in the question, but Crowley didn’t bother to point that out. He waved off the nearby humans, who grumbled. They were ready for a fight.  
  
“I’m here,” he shifted uncomfortably, this armor was ridiculous, “spreading foment.”  
  
“What is that, some kind of porridge?”  
  
Crowley bit back a smart remark. “No, I’m fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur’s been spreading too much peace and tranquility in the land so, I’m here…you know…fomenting.”  
  
“Well I’m meant to be,” the angel sighed, “’fomenting’ peace.”  
  
“So we’re both working very hard in damp places and just canceling each other out?”  
  
“Well you could put it like that…it _is_ a bit damp.”  
  
Why would Hell send him somewhere where Heaven had sent their own person? All of the Earth to…foment and somehow they wound up in the same place. Was anyone even paying attention?  
  
“Be easier if we both stayed home.”  
  
The angel gave him a look, but the demon could tell he had his interest. Maybe there was still a bit of that mischievousness left after all.  
  
“If we just sent messages back to our head office saying we’d done everything they’d asked for…wouldn’t it?”  
  
“But that would be lying.”  
  
Crowley stumbled around a response. “End result would be the same. Cancel each other out.”  
  
“But my dear fellow…well they’d check!”  
  
The angel sounded as though he were trying to convince himself of a reason not to do this more than convince the demon.  
  
The demon was still processing the angel’s use of the words “dear fellow”.  
  
“You don’t want to get Gabriel upset with you…”  
  
That knob. “Oh, our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get their paperwork they seem happy enough…as long as you’re seen to be doing something every now and again…”  
  
“No!” Aziraphale shouted. “Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing! We’re not having this conversation, not another word!”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, how many times had he heard that one? “Right.”  
  
And of course, because he had to have the last word, the angel threw back “Right!” over his shoulder.  
  
Crowley watched him disappear into the fog. Well at least he hadn’t had his heart ripped out this time around.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and leaving comments. It really means the world to me. I've got a lot going on and this is a nice little reprieve. I'm not kidding when I say that every time I see a new comment I jump around like an idiot. I really appreciate everyone's support, even you quiet lurkers! (I like to think Michael Sheen is secretly following along with this story, lol.) Anyway, I'm really excited about the next couple of chapters, I've got some surprises in store for you all! Thanks again!

-Heaven, 715 AD-

Aziraphale’s quiet sigh echoed in the expanse of absolute nothingness that made up Heaven. It felt like one large room. He couldn’t recall ever actually seeing a door or a hallway, it just kept going, undoubtedly shaping itself around what you needed when you needed it. There was never anything to discover, no surprises. It was constant.

He was growing to dislike it.

He hadn’t delivered a report in person in centuries but he’d been doing some thinking and this presented the best opportunity to speak to someone in person. He didn’t need to wander for long after passing the paperwork off to some low-level celestial before Heaven rearranged itself and he rounded a pillar and there stood Michael, poised and perfect and looking for all the world like he’d just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.

“Ah! Michael!”

“What is it, Aziraphale?”

“Nothing, I was just dropping off some paperwork.”

“Well done.”

“But since you’re here, I did have…a question.”

The archangel continued to stare at him.

“I was wondering about th-the Fallen.”

“What about them?”

“Well they were angels, right? They had to be angels first in order to be…fallen…ones.”

“What is you want to ask, Aziraphale?”

“I just can’t help but wonder who they were. Before the wa—“

“What does it matter? They’re fallen. They’re demons. They’re evil.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated. They were a nuisance, to be sure. But in last few centuries he’d only ever consistently run into one and he didn’t seem evil at all. He seemed fairly harmless. There was that bit about trying to convince Aziraphale to shirk his duties and lie about it. And even that wasn’t evil so much as it was…lazy.

“Is there something we should know?” Michael asked.

“Hmm? No, not at all. I uh,” Aziraphale scrambled to think of something that wasn’t entirely a flat out lie, “I-I had a run in with a demon and I was curious if there was anything I could uh, consider, when dealing with them. A sort of weakness.”

“Perhaps we should send someone to assist you on Ear—“

“No!” he said, perhaps a little too hastily. The last thing he wanted was another angel on Earth, messing about with how he did things. Besides, if Crowley ever showed up unannounced, as he oft did, there was no telling what would happen. What if the other angel tried to attack him?

Aziraphale didn’t allow himself to put much thought into the fact that he was seemingly more concerned with the safety of the demon than a fellow angel.

“There’s no need to send someone,” he said. “I’ve got my hands on him— _it! Eyes!_ I…” he cleared his throat, “I have my eye on the situation and I am handling it.”

“Good,” said Michael. “See that you are.”

The archangel walked off, leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts. Thoughts that weren’t making much sense. He looked around Heaven, or at least the part of Heaven that was revealing itself to him and it felt off. As far back as he could remember, this was how Heaven had always been and yet it felt as though it were missing something. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what. All he knew was that it felt…incomplete.

-Hell, 832 AD- 

  


Crowley watched the other demons file out of the tiny, cramped room. He was pretty sure he’d fallen asleep during the meeting. It was all the same. Secure souls for their lord, blah blah blah. He wasn’t even sure what that _did_. Did having more souls in Hell make them somehow stronger? It didn’t make more demons. Demons were fallen angels, so what was the point? The only way to make their army stronger would be to make more fallen angels.  
  
He shuddered.  
  
He wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.  
  
Which was why he was thinking he might need to keep away from Aziraphale. Even if he could get him to remember, then what? When they were both angels, no one cared. But he was a demon now. What if loving a demon was enough of a reason to be cast out?  
  
“Don’t think too hard, Crowley,” Dagon said. “You’ll hurt something. It’s not hard. Tempt the humans, secure their souls.”  
  
“Right. Yeah.” The room was empty now. “Dagon?”  
  
The demon poked their head back in, “What?”  
  
The Lord of Files wasn’t Crowley’s first choice but then he didn’t think he had many other options. Who else would he ask? Hastur? Ligur?  
  
“Do you ever think about it?”  
  
“’Bout what?”  
  
“Y’know…before.”  
  
Dagon slowly came fully into the room, “Before the Fall?”  
  
“Yeah and, I don’t know the angels. How they don’t remember it. The war. Us.”  
  
“Not really, no. They chose their sides.”  
  
“Well, yeah, but…” The start of it had happened so fast there wasn’t much time for side-choosing. He certainly hadn’t known.  
  
“What are you getting at, Crowley?”  
  
“Nothing, I guess I just—“  
  
Beelzebub stepped into the room, “Get back to woooork. Why are you just mucking about?”  
  
“Smoke break,” Crowley said.  
  
“It’s Hell, Crowley,” Beelzebub said as they stepped aside for Dagon to leave. “You don’t get breaks. You don’t even smoke.”  
  
Crowley pushed to his feet, mumbling, “Could if I wanted to.”  
  
“It’s better if you forget.”  
  
The demon was halfway out the door and almost didn’t hear them. Almost. But he did. He turned around, “What?”  
  
“About before,” Beelzebub said quietly. “About them. They don’t remember us and they never will.”  
  
Crowley knew the Lord of Hell was thinking of a certain purple-eyed angel. He had always been a smug little shit but they worked well together. Balanced each other out.  
  
“This is who we are now,” they said.  
  
“What if…it’s not who I want to be?”  
  
Beelzebub looked up at him, their tone hard, “Adapt.”  
  
“Don’t you miss him?”  
  
Slowly, Beelzebub looked down at the inside of their wrists. Crowley knew that was where their halo had been. It used to be a pale green. “It’s like Dagon said, they chose their sides.”  
  
“But if you could, I don’t know, spark his memory, if—“  
  
“They’re gone, Crowley!” They waved a hand past their face, gesturing to the flies that surrounded their head, the scars, “We were deformed physically but their reward for being loyal was far wooorse. They were deformed on the inside. They aren’t the same angels we knew, the same we… They chose to serve a master whose rewards are worse than the punishments of Hell. Even if they could remember, sides would still have to be chosen. And…” They swallowed, “I can’t face that betrayal again. Forget them. Whoever they are, whoever’s got you asking these questions, forget them. That’s an order.”  
  
Beelzebub headed for the door.  
  
He hated to admit it but there was a certain amount of sense to what Beelzebub said. Everyone, himself included, was different after the war. He was still learning what demon Crowley was capable of, what he felt comfortable with. He wasn’t sure he could separate the Aziraphale of now from the one that still existed in his mind and heart. But he knew it wasn’t fair to keep comparing the two, to keep waiting for a man that…technically didn’t exist anymore.  
  
“One last thing.”  
  
“ _What_ , Crowley?”  
  
“Do you remember your name?”  
  
He could see it on their face. A flicker of an almost-memory. He could also see when they decided not to chase it.  
  
“My name is Beelzebub.”


	7. Chapter 7

-Europe, 1348-

Aziraphale wandered the streets a little aimlessly. Everything felt so, so awful. A plague? Really? So many had died already and, according to his briefings, many, many more would die yet. It was of biblical proportions. Maybe not a flood but this felt a lot like a loophole.  
  
Eventually, he made his way to the outskirts of town, where the stench of death lessened, if only by a fraction. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there when he heard footsteps behind him, felt the presence of someone standing next to him.  
  
“So…” Crowley said.  
  
“Don’t,” Aziraphale replied.  
  
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”  
  
“Yes, but I know what you’re going to say and I wish you wouldn’t.”  
  
They stood in silence. But not for long.  
  
“Well,” said the demon, “I guess it’s not a flood.”  
  
“I said ‘don’t’!”  
  
“Plague seems a bit of a loophole though don’t you—“  
  
“I know!” Aziraphale heard his voice crack, he could feel the tears welling. He refused to look at the demon. “I know. And it’s just, it’s not _fair_. And I don’t understand _why_ it’s happening but,” he took a breath, ringing his hands tighter and tighter, “I have to trust in the Almighty’s plan.”  
  
“Eh…do you though?”  
  
“Asked the _fallen_ angel.”  
  
“S’pose that’s fair.”  
  
Quiet settled over them once more.  
  
“So what have your people sent you up here to do then?” Aziraphale couldn’t imagine what more trouble the demon could cause.  
  
“Eh…nothing, really. Kind of got their hands full with, well, all the new arrivals.”  
  
“Oh. Of course.”  
  
“You?”  
  
His shoulders dropped, “Not much. Some…miracles. Healing a few of the afflicted here or there.”  
  
He could feel the demon’s appraising eyes on him. If he knew Crowley, and he was starting to think he did, then he’d see right away the problem.  
  
“Wouldn’t…that, uh,” he chewed on the words a bit, “look I’m not trying to upset you angel, but wouldn’t doing that cause _more_ problems among the humans?”  
  
“You mean would they question why one person was spared and none other? Would they then grow suspicious of each other? Would they see it as an act of God, and for once be correct, but then use that knowledge to place blame on and persecute anyone _they_ deemed not holy enough? Would they kill one another over it?”  
  
Aziraphale felt the tears threaten once more. “Yes, yes it would.”  
  
The demon didn’t say anything. Aziraphale wished he would. Wished he would ask his incessant questions so that he could answer them and be forced to think about this and defend it in the name of the Almighty because on his own he just couldn't see the point of it all.  
  
“If you haven’t any assignments, then what brings you to Earth?”  
  
“Came to check on you.”  
  
The angel looked at the demon then. Crowley didn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to stare off into the distance. Aziraphale studied his profile. The snake mark on his temple. The way he kept his head up, chin raised, like he was above all this. He was haughty, and blasphemous, a demon, as Michael had said.  
  
“Check on me? Whatever for?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, looking down at the ground before turning his head toward Aziraphale. And suddenly all that hubris was gone. Vanished like it never existed. And Aziraphale realized that whenever the demon looked at him, really looked at him, it was like he was always looking up at him. Which made no sense, he had a few inches on the man and yet there it was in his eyes.  
  
“No reason,” Crowley said, looking away. “I think I’m going to pop off for a bit. No telling how long this will last. Might as well have a nap.”  
  
“You’re going to sleep through the next few years?”  
  
“If I’m lucky I’ll sleep through the rest of this century. I hate this century.”  
  
“Crowley you can’t just sleep through the century, that’s ludicrous!”  
  
“No? Watch me.”  
  
“Ugh.”  
  
“You don’t have to stick around for this you know. You could…”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“You could.”  
  
“Why do you do this? Why do you try to tem…to convince me I’m capable or-or even interested in doing things that I’m _not_?”  
  
“I—“  
  
The angel rounded on him, “I have no interest in shirking my duties! I take them quite seriously! Something you clearly don’t understand. You don’t understand anything! You don’t know the first thing about me!”  
  
The demon took a deep breath. “No,” he said, and in that moment something between them cracked and Aziraphale felt it more profoundly, more painfully, than anything he’d ever felt before. “I s’pose I don’t.”  
  
Crowley looked out at the small town then back to Aziraphale. The angel met his eyes and in them saw the hurt of someone that had gone searching for a miracle and come back wanting, broken. The demon lifted his head, looking down at the angel.  
  
“Goodbye, Aziraphale,” he said.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t watch him leave.

  
By 1353 and an innumerable amount of deaths later, Aziraphale was terribly lonely. He kept thinking he might turn a corner and see him there. Or that he’d be standing around, minding his business, and would hear the demon’s voice, soft at his ear. His demon. But it never happened.  
  
By 1384 Aziraphale thought the demon really was going to try and sleep the century away.  
  
By 1402 it occurred to him the demon may have meant goodbye permanently.  
  
By 1437 he realized he might have made a terrible mistake.


	8. Chapter 8

-Somewhere in Europe, 1348 to 1463-

Angels, Fallen or otherwise, don’t dream. They don’t need sleep, just as they don’t need to breathe or eat, and as such, weren’t designed with the capacity for dreaming. Sleeping, for an angel, is nothingness. An absence of time or space or feeling.  
  
If they did dream, they might dream of a time before humans. Before war, before they knew pain. They might dream of Heaven that was. If they had an imagination they might dream of gardens or water or sand that never sticks to your feet. They might dream of simultaneous sunrises and sunsets which produced colors that spoke directly to your soul, had a conversation with it, held it and left it feeling safe. They might dream of the stars. Of whole planets, solar systems, galaxies. They might dream of the coolness of space, the reassurance of eternity. They might dream of stardust on their lips, nebulas in their hair, suns that burned bright in their hands. They might dream of love so profound, so true, unconditional and unchallenged and unquestioned. Of laughter and soft smiles. Of stolen moments, of carved time. Of the flutter of wings and the movement of unnamed, unseen celestial forms. The caress of halos, of the meeting of souls. Of holy names breathed as much as they were sighed as much as they were gasped as much as they were whispered as much as they were spoken with all the devotion and veneration reserved for the most divine.  
  
But, if they had an imagination they may just as well dream of all the things they kept at bay. The things that haunt their waking hours. Their fears.  
  
They might have nightmares.  
  
Twisted visions of dead and broken friends. Images of a rain that corroded all it touched. Of air that was impossible to breathe because it was saturated with the smell of burning wings. They might relive moments that can never be taken back, can never be changed. They might remember the last fleeting touches before being pulled away. A hundred blue eyes burning in anger. They might dream of a fall so long and terrible the heat of it burned the tears from their eyes before ever reaching their cheeks.  
  
They might wake screaming and shivering and sobbing.  
  
No, angels, fallen or otherwise, don’t dream.  
  
It is, perhaps, the greatest mercy ever to be gifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> This is it. This is the one that almost made me cry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was so short and sad, here's a long one!

-London, 1606-

Aziraphale had almost talked himself out of going to see the show again. It was a bit indulgent and he supposed there were more “official” things he could be doing. But, well, it was _Shakespeare_. He found no matter how many times he saw a show he always caught something he hadn’t before, discovered a new way to view the characters, their plight, the themes. And well, by the very nature of live performance every show was a little different.  
  
He scanned the area for a good seat when he caught sight of a familiar head of red hair a few rows down.  
  
Was it?  
  
It couldn’t be. Not after all this time.  
  
The angel carefully made his way closer. It was. It was him. Aziraphale could feel the panic rising, what should he do? Should he ignore him? Just leave? They hadn’t parted on good terms, it was very likely the demon wanted nothing to do with him.  
  
Suddenly Crowley sat up a little straighter. To Aziraphale’s surprise, the demon’s forked tongue flicked the air ever so slightly and then the demon turned and looked right at him.  
  
“Hello, Aziraphale.”  
  
“Crowley. I…hi.” The seats between them were empty and Aziraphale risked coming closer. “How are you? How was your-your rest?”  
  
“Was good. A good rest. You?”  
  
“Eh…it was,” he took a deep breath, “it was a rough century, if I’m being honest.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
There was something a little different about the demon, about the way he looked at Aziraphale. That constant hint of amusement still lingered, of course. But there was something else. Or maybe, something was missing.  
  
“Crowley, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”  
  
“You were right though.”  
  
“I was?”  
  
“I don’t know you.”  
  
Aziraphale swallowed down the lump in his throat, “Right. Well, I was thinking, I had some time to think and I-I thought maybe we could…change that?”  
  
The demon shifted in his seat, turning more toward the angel. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Your suggestion of us…sharing,” he looked around the theater, “responsibilities?”  
  
“Ooooh. Right.”  
  
With a newfound burst of courage, Aziraphale sat down in the seat next to Crowley. “I just, it’s been over 5,000 years and clearly we’re the only,” he lowered his voice, “celestial—“  
  
“I don’t think I count as that anymore.”  
  
“Well, otherworldy—“  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“ _Beings_ on Earth. I mean I’ve seen the occasional angel pop in every now and then but it’s-it’s mostly me. And you. And I thought, well it just makes sense to maybe…assist one another. And in doing so we’d likely learn more about the other and that’s surely a plus as far as our head offices are concerned, right? Keeping an eye on the enemy…sort of thing?”  
  
Crowley studied the angel, head tilted back, serpentine eyes peering over the edge of his glasses. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure the demon believed what he was trying to spin. The angel didn’t quite believe it himself. While it was true that it would probably look good if he told Gabriel or Michael that he had a demon in his sights and was aware of his every move, the motivation for this change of heart stemmed entirely from the fact that he just didn’t want to ever feel as lonely as he did while Crowley slept. He couldn’t exactly admit that he missed their conversations, even the demon’s sarcastic remarks that almost always annoyed him, and that he was the closest thing the angel had to a friend. But if he and Crowley shared their duties then they were certainly likely to see one another more often…and that was all Aziraphale wanted.  
  
“I don’t think we should tell our bosses,” Crowley said.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“No, they’d only want to know more, have more reports, more updates. Increases the odds of them finding out the truth of the matter. No, if we do this, it’s just between you and I. The work gets done, they don’t need to know how. Our secret.”  
  
“I see. That makes sense.”  
  
“So…you’re okay with lying?”  
  
“I-it would be more an…omission…of certain fa—“  
  
“That’s lying, angel.”  
  
He frowned.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong,” Crowley said, “I’m all for it. But are you?”  
  
He was, in theory. It was just a small lie, here and there. The work still got done. Assuming he could trust Crowley to do it. It was both their necks on the line though, so he thought he could. That also meant Crowley would be trusting him.  
  
Before the angel could commit one way or the other, the quiet chime of a bell rang out. The play was about to start. Aziraphale looked around them, many of the good seats were taken, besides of course the ones he and Crowley already had. Should he leave? Would they finish their conversation afterwards? He didn’t want to be stuck in the back…  
  
“Stop fidgeting about,” Crowley said. “Sit still, it’s starting.”  
  
Aziraphale did as he was told, settling into his seat. He went from having lunch with a demon to not speaking to him for centuries to watching a show together. He stole a sideways glance at him. Quietly, Crowley slipped off his glasses, no doubt figuring it was safe enough to do with all eyes on the stage. It left Aziraphale staring at that profile of his. His hair was long again, like back in Eden. He must’ve let it grow while he slept.  
  
It was a good thing Aziraphale had already seen the play because he spent as much time, if not more, watching the demon as he did the stage. If anyone had asked him beforehand who he thought Crowley would be most drawn to, well he would have said he didn’t think demons went to plays, but that showed what he knew. Then he would’ve said Oberon and Puck, clearly. Wiley creatures playing pranks, causing mayhem. Yet every time Aziraphale caught the subtle curve of his smile it was during a scene with the mechanicals, he seemed quite taken with them.  
  
Intermission came after the second act and Crowley stood, stretching those long legs of his. He turned to Aziraphale, sliding his glasses back on. “Hungry, angel?”  
  
“I…yes.”  
  
The demon looked around then jerked his head toward a merchant. “Over there. Come on.”  
  
Aziraphale followed behind him, astounded at his luck. It seemed they might be okay, that Crowley wasn’t going to hold his outburst against him. He’d never actually said that he accepted the angel’s apology but, well, that was his right. Aziraphale had apologized, and meant it, that was all he could do.  
  
“So,” the angel said, “do you like the play?”  
  
“Don’t know, it’s not over yet.”  
  
“But so far?” Aziraphale purchased some fruit but Crowley didn’t buy anything at all.  
  
“I like the actors,” Crowley said. “The-the mechanicals, Peter Quince and the rest of them.”  
  
“I noticed that.”  
  
“Well they’re, y’know, doing their best, aren’t they? Meanwhile, literal kings and queens are bickering, acting like children, causing all sorts of trouble. Those idiot lovers go running off into the woods—why the woods? And then you have the mechanicals who, I mean, I would guess, work hard at their jobs. Quince is a carpenter, that’s not easy work. A weaver, a tailor. Hard work. And then in their limited spare time they work hard on something that y’know, brings them joy. Or ought to. But they’re idiots of course. That’s how they’re portrayed. Comic relief. And it’s frustrating, although I don’t think it’s unintentional, that the hardest working people are painted as incompetent fools while the wealthy and the royalty are just,” he made a voice, “victims of circumstance and twisted fates. As though they have no control over anything they do or what happens to them when in fact they have the most power and this foolishness is what they do with it.”  
  
Aziraphale stood with his mouth open, grape halfway to his lips. That was the most Crowley had ever said to him, on anything. And he was so _passionate_ about it.  
  
“I…” the angel fumbled for words, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”  
  
“We’ll see how it ends though.”  
  
He popped the grape in his mouth and thought of the final scene, when the actors put on their play and it’s a failure of monstrous proportions. How all the other characters laugh at them while they remain blissfully unawares.  
  
It completely changed the scene for him.  
  
“So,” Crowley said, “this arrangement. Are you sure you’re up for it, angel?”  
  
Aziraphale struggled to switch back to their earlier topic. He wanted to talk more about the play. “Well I’d like to start small of course. Nothing too heinous.”  
  
Crowley nodded and seemed to think on that.  
  
“And if I’m honest I am…just a little bit curious of…how it works.”  
  
“Tempting people?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“It’s really not that hard. You put the idea in their head and they make a choice.”  
  
“You don’t…”  
  
“What? Force them? Is that what you think I’ve been doing all this time? That I forced Eve to eat that apple?”  
  
There was no mistaking the offense in Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale scrambled to reassure him, “No! No I…well honestly I didn’t think about it much at all.”  
  
“Perhaps you should.”  
  
That was twice in one conversation Aziraphale had been made painfully aware of his readiness to accept something at face value. He felt ashamed and even more so that it was a demon that had put him in his place.  
  
“I just put the idea in their head,” Crowley said. “Make it seem appealing. But at the end of the day it’s still their choice. I tempt. I don’t force, I don’t control, and I don’t make anyone do anything they don’t want to.”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale found he’d quite lost his appetite. “Uh, and the, the blessings? You’ll be ok with that?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “They’re not that hard.”  
  
“You’ve done it before?”  
  
“Eeehhh,” the demon made a face, shrinking in on himself a little. “I, y’know, might’ve helped a bloke or two out here or there. And, of course there was before the humans so, eh.”  
  
“Oh.” Wait. “Oh! _Before_ the humans? You remember before the humans?”  
  
Crowley stood up straight, “Uhhh…”  
  
“Before the war?”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about th—“  
  
“Because I don’t rem—“  
  
“Intermissions over. Let’s go, angel.”  
  
“But…” Aziraphale watched, helpless, as Crowley stalked off back toward their seats. He’d said to come along, so he wasn’t walking away from him, just the conversation. Aziraphale followed behind, determined not to let it go that easily. If Crowley remembered things he didn’t then maybe he could answer questions that Michael had flat out refused to. After the play he’d try to get them back on the topic.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t even try to be subtle about watching Crowley watch the play. He was fascinated by his every reaction, however small. A twitch of his brow, slight curve of his lips. The demon seemed, however, to become more and more perturbed as the play went on.  
  
When it was over, they sat a moment in silence while everyone else filed out around them.  
  
Finally Aziraphale cleared his throat, “Well?”  
  
“Didn’t like the ending,” Crowley said flatly.  
  
“Ah, with the mechanicals? I’d wondered about that. I’d seen it before and after what you said during intermission…”  
  
“There’s that,” he pushed to his feet, making his way out of the theater, “and the lovers.”  
  
Aziraphale scurried after him, damn his long legs. “What do you mean? They all got happy endings.”  
  
“Did they?”  
  
“Well yes! They—“ Had he been watching the same play? Did he fall asleep at some point? “They all got married in the end.”  
  
“Right.” Crowley stopped short and Aziraphale almost crashed into him. The demon looked at him, “But Demetrius never loved Helena, did he?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“He’s still under that spell.”  
  
Aziraphale frowned. He’d been so caught up in the fantasy of it all, the romanticism of it, he hadn’t stopped to think of that. Any of it. And yet here was this demon challenging him to really _think_ about things, to ask questions.  
  
How he’d missed him.  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said. “No if it were me I’d…” he looked back toward the stage, “I’d rather spend eternity alone than trick the person I love into caring for me.”  
  
There was such a rawness to his words, to the look on his face, Aziraphale wondered for the first time if Crowley lost someone during the war. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it, the poor man. Aziraphale decided not to push the topic after all. Maybe with this “arrangement”, as they got to know one another, maybe one day the demon would feel comfortable enough to open up to him about it. He’d like that. For now, he thought it couldn’t hurt to wait a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked the dates a bit. I know in the show it says they're at the Globe in 1601 but (according to my VERY CURSORY research) Hamlet was written 1599-1601, and its first performance in maybe 1609?? I don't know. Figured no harm done if I push the dates around. EITHER WAY WE STILL GOT ANOTHER 400 YEARS OF PINING TO GO


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be honest, I struggled a little bit with this one because I really didn't want to just regurgitate the entire Hamlet scene back at you all. Especially after several chapters of original content lol. Hopefully this is a good middle ground!  
> ALSO!  
> We've been on this journey for a month now! Can you believe it? I can't, lol. I really appreciate everyone's kind comments. I'd love to do something as a thank you but I don't know what. I was thinking I could try drawing a scene from the fic? Or maybe try narrating it? That's...really my only two skills, and I'm not very good at either lmao. Open to suggestions!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

-The Globe Theatre, London, 1609 -

“Nobody has to know,” the demon said. “Toss you for Edinburgh.”  
  
The angel looked away. Shook his head. Muttered an incoherent “no”. But if there was anything Crowley was good at, it was being able to tell when he’d successfully gotten someone to at least _consider_ what he was proposing. And besides, if Aziraphale had no interest at all in continuing this, why did he agree to meet with him?  
  
“Fine. Heads.”  
  
The coin flipped through the air and Crowley caught it smoothly. It didn’t escape him that he could cheat at the coin toss, or that Aziraphale trusted him not to. He never did, of course, for that exact reason. He would lie to Hell and Heaven and even himself, but never Aziraphale.  
  
“Tails, I’m afraid. You’re going to Scotland.”  
  
The angel’s face dropped. Off to the side Will was going on about how terrible his play was and how it wouldn’t be a success. Well no shit. Poor Hamlet and his ghost dad and evil Uncle and, honestly, kind of shady mum and again with the poison, there was always so much poison and dying. It was morbid and boring and so convoluted and why was Aziraphale looking at him with big bright eyes?  
  
Vaguely Crowley could recall hearing William say something about his play needing a miracle. And now his angel was looking at him so painfully hopeful. He didn't even ask, he didn't have to, and what’s worse was he apparently _knew_ he didn't have to. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Aziraphale came to understand that he could turn to Crowley and the demon was powerless to say no.  
  
When had that happened?  
  
“Yes, alright,” he said. “I’ll do that one. My treat.”  
  
“Oh really?” The angel said, his smile genuine. His smile seemed brighter on Earth. More full of wonder. Crowley wasn’t sure how that was possible but he loved it.  
  
He took in that smile, committed it to memory, just in case, and forced himself to make a lighthearted comment of, “I still prefer the funny ones,” before sauntering off.

-Hell, 1609-

Leaving the theater, Crowley went down a block or two before going straight down. He wished Hell would learn how to send letters. Carrier pigeons. Message by hell-hound, even. Anything so long as it meant he didn’t have to physically come down there for meetings that could honestly be a note. He was going early, hoping to get out quickly, so he could get back to Earth. He’d cut his meeting with Aziraphale short, mostly because he was afraid the angel would expect him to stay and watch the rest of the play, but he would have to see him again if he was going to give him the details of that clan leader.

He was seeing more of the angel now. The “Arrangement” provided ample opportunity to see one another. They’d met more times in the last three years than they had in all the millennia they’d been on Earth. The angel was clearly getting more comfortable around him.

Oh, that smile.

But he wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up. There was still no guarantee the angel would ever remember, or ever feel the same way again. That was why, he told himself, he had practically ran away when Aziraphale asked him about before the war. As much as he wanted the angel to remember, he didn't actually know how to _tell_ him. He wasn't sure the angel would believe him and there wouldn't be another chance to convince him. Crowley didn’t want to push him away by getting ahead of himself. 

Beyond that, it was going well, better than he could have hoped, better than it had started. The time away in the 14th century had helped. Crowley didn’t sleep it all away, he woke up after seven or eight decades, traveled a bit, and did some thinking. He decided he would have to get to know the Aziraphale of now, of course, but he would also have to figure out who _he_ was.

Part of that meant actually doing his job and discovering, meetings, tiny corridors, and whatever it was that consistently dripped from the ceiling aside, he actually liked it. He was good at it, for one. He got to travel, meet all kinds of people, be around as humans invented and discovered all sorts of things. Humans were _fascinating_ in a hideously morbid sort of way. There was so much about them that, as a former celestial being, he just didn’t understand. The constant fighting for one. Heaven and Hell fought but it was just the once and apparently they were on a hiatus. They created things for the sake of seeing it exist, which he did understand. But they also destroyed for the sake of destroying, which he couldn’t fathom. A part of him hated them, too. With their free will. They were allowed to ask questions. They were allowed to make mistakes. They might end up in Heaven or Hell at the end but Crowley knew how indistinguishable the two really were and in the meantime they got to _live_.

He thought to try it.

That was what got him watching plays. Humans acting out stories that questioned their humanity, it was like watching them watch themselves. Fascinating. Especially because they never seemed to learn a damn thing from it.

He’d also discovered his mind was beginning to do…strange things. He’d always been one to ask questions, it was part of what had gotten him in trouble in Heaven in the first place but now…now his mind _wandered_. Sometimes it meant going down a tangent and then looking around and realizing he’d been standing in one spot for two hours and all he had to show for it was the vague idea that platypuses weren’t trustworthy.

Sometimes it meant thinking about hell-hounds and how there wasn’t an equivalent in Heaven, never was. So why did Hell get giant demonic beasts and why were they relatively dog-shaped? Humans considered dogs to be good friends and allies. Was that why? What if they were cat shaped? A yowling, massive, demonic cat in heat is terrifying. Much more so than some slobbering dog. Cats got a bad rep between witches and plagues, but they weren’t that bad really. Independent. Kept to themselves. Show affection to those they like and trust. Cats were alright. Even the ones without tails. He kind of felt bad for them. As a snake he was mostly tail, wasn’t he? That’s disconcerting. Tails start at the end of the spine though, don’t they?

That derailed train of thought had happened during a meeting and in the middle of Dagon’s debriefing Crowley had inexplicably said, “Am I 90% tail or spine?”

He learned to do better at keeping those thoughts in his head where they belonged. The last thing he wanted was to be talking with Aziraphale and blurt out something his apparently broken brain thought up.

Many, many dimly lit and narrow corridors later, Crowley was nearly at the meeting room. He was early, as he’d hoped, but maybe too early. It didn’t seem anyone was around. He poked his head into the room, almost shrugging it off as empty, before he caught sight of Beelzebub sitting on a chair, shoulders slumped, elbows on their knees, as they stared down at their hands.

Not their hands, their wrists. Where their halo used to be.

The Lord of Hell let out a quiet sob and Crowley ducked back into the hall. He couldn’t go in and…what? Comfort them? They’d made their stance, their public stance at least, on the past very clear. This was a private moment he shouldn’t have stumbled on. The most he could do for them was stand guard.

It wasn’t long before the sound of footsteps could be heard further down the hall. Hastur turned the corner and Crowley stopped leaning on the wall, making his way toward the demon.

“Hastur!” he said much, much louder than necessary. He practically screamed it. “How's it hanging?”

The demon made a face, “How’s…what hanging?”

“It’s a phrase hu—cause they have—nevermind.”

“Ugh, why do you spend so much time up there? Around humans?”

They were walking back towards the meeting room and Crowley tried to keep his pace slow, “Well, they have a lot going for them. Better sense of humor. Better smells…mostly. Better fashion, for sure.”

Beelzebub came out into the hall, scowling, unimpressed and not at all looking as though they’d been crying alone in a dark room for the past twenty minutes.

“Crowley, why is it I only ever find you talking and not working? You’re always just standing about.”

“Well I’m certainly not going to _sit_ on anything down here.”

Beelzebub sighed, “Shut up. Get inside. I don’t want this taking two years like the last one did.”

Crowley sketched a mocking bow and slid into the room. If Beelzebub knew he’d been in the hall the whole time, they gave no hints. And so Crowley did the same. Appearances had to be kept. They were demons. There was no crying or hugging or support to be found. There was only their eternal punishment, their work, and the smell of sulfur.

The demon thought of Aziraphale’s smile back in the theater. He made an effort to hold onto the image. They’d shattered his halo, warped his wings, disfigured his True State, and taken his name. But that smile, that was his and his alone.


	11. Chapter 11

-Paris, 1793-

Azirpahale massaged his wrists where the shackles had rubbed. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d found himself in the dreadful situation to begin with. It had happened so quickly. One minute he was walking down the street trying to remember where that pastry shop was and the next he was being hauled off. Talking to them hadn’t really worked and so he just hoped for some sort of divine intervention.  
  
He studied the demon still tucked in the corner of the room.  
  
There was no denying he _looked_ divine…  
  
“I suppose I should thank you for the rescue.”  
  
Crowley pushed to his feet, “Don’t say that. If my people hear I rescued an angel I’ll be the one in trouble and my lot do not send rude notes.”  
  
No, Aziraphale supposed they didn’t. So why take the risk? Why come all the way to Paris (he didn’t believe for a second Crowley just _happened_ to be in the area, Crowley always seemed to know exactly where he was), and save him?  
  
“What about if I buy you lunch?”  
  
“Looking like that?”  
  
Aziraphale miracled himself different clothes then watched as Crowley made some changes to the guard’s attire and he was pulled away. The angel didn’t really think he’d make it all the way to the guillotine before someone realized who he was. You don’t cut off a thousand people’s heads without someone remembering your face.  
  
“What’s for lunch?”  
  
He never did make it to that pastry shop… “What would you say to some crepes?”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Another miracle got them out of the Bastille and away from prying eyes, Crowley had done that one, and after a few wrong streets, Aziraphale finally remembered which way the shop was.  
  
The two walked in comfortable quiet. It was strange that it was…no longer strange. Aziraphale could remember clearly their first outing way back in Rome, how nervous he’d been, he never really expected the demon to say yes. Now he’d be surprised if the demon turned him down. They’d gone for lunch or dinner or tea on so many occasions since the start of their arrangement. Sometimes they might even forget to actually discuss the sharing of duties and unfortunately have to schedule _another_ time to meet—which wasn’t unfortunate at all in Aziraphale’s mind.  
  
The demon _listened_ to him. Asked questions. He didn’t talk much about himself but he’d been very intrigued by the idea of Aziraphale opening a bookshop. They were well past two enemies bending the rules, they were practically friends. That’s what that was, wasn’t it? The feeling he got whenever he heard Crowley’s voice? That was why he sometimes forgot to mention key details of some blessing he had to do, so that Crowley, admittedly annoyed, would have to come back and get the information. That was why he felt just a bit sad when he realized the last time he’d seen the demon truly smile was nearly 6,000 years ago, back on the wall of Eden, when he’d asked if it would be funny if they’d got it mixed up. Aziraphale had said no and the demon’s smile melted away. After that it was only ever an upwards twitch at the corner of his mouth, a tight-lipped smirk if he was lucky. Considering where they were now, sitting in a pastry shop, waiting for a dessert, constantly sharing their workload, he did think it was a bit funny.  
  
The food arrived and Crowley took a sip of the wine he’d miracled for himself before glancing across the table at Aziraphale. “What’s the matter, angel? You’re pouting again.”  
  
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I am a divine being and I don’t pout.”  
  
“Yeah. Lying’s a sin, you know that right?”  
  
Aziraphale took a small bite of his crepe. He might not be able to get the demon to smile again, really smile, but he hoped he might get to learn a little more about him. It’d been almost two centuries since their reconnecting at Midsummer, maybe now he could start to broach the topic of before the war.  
  
“Crowley, how long have you been able to do that?”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“You stopped _time_ , my good man.”  
  
“Oh, that. Uh, I don’t know.”  
  
“Can all demons do it?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s called a quarterly assessment meeting.”  
  
“Very funny but I’m being serious. That’s…well…” It was a rather impressive feat for a demon is what it was. “I can’t do it.”  
  
“Aw,” the demon stuck out his lower lip in a mock pout, “jealous?”  
  
“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. I just think it’s curious. You also have your wings, you know.”  
  
Crowley shifted in his seat, “If they could be called that. But yes, I’d noticed.”  
  
“Do other demons still have theirs?”  
  
“I don’t _know_. We don’t talk about these things. Would be a little rude of me too, don’t you think? ‘Hello, Ligur, just curious, can I see your wings or at least the stumps where they once were’?”  
  
“Well…I didn’t mean like _that_.”  
  
“What are you getting at with all this, anyway?”  
  
“I’m not getting at anything, I just think it’s interesting, is all.”  
  
What Aziraphale didn’t say was that he didn’t think other demons still had their wings. Or the ability to perform such powerful miracles. He didn’t think other demons could sense where a single angel was anywhere on Earth. And he wondered what that meant about Crowley. He was clearly Fallen, but why had God allowed him to keep that much power?  
  
“The time thing,” Crowley said, “is, I don’t know. I can’t do it for long, anyway. Short bursts. It’s probably because I was here when all this was made. I helped build a lot of these systems, it’s not surprising some of them still bend to my will.”  
  
Aziraphale almost dropped his fork. The demon had said it all so casually, with a shrug of a shoulder, but the angel sat dumbstruck.  
  
Crowley helped _build the stars?_ Suddenly it made perfect sense why his wings were so striking. Aziraphale hadn’t seen them in millennia but they were hard to forget. They were the deepest, most impossible black, with hints of blue and purple that seemed to shimmer in and out of existence. They were hard to look at it without feeling like you were being pulled in, enveloped, protected. He hadn’t dared touch them but he had wanted to, oh how he had wanted to. They were entrancing and made him think of the night sky and now he knew why. They were magnificent. Why did Crowley hate them so?  
  
The demon nodded at Aziraphale’s plate, “Your crepes are going to get…whatever it is crepes get when they’ve been sitting too long, I don’t know.”  
  
Aziraphale looked down at his food, his mind still spinning. His will was strong enough, even as a demon, to convince time to stop just for him. And he used that to…save an angel from being foolishly discorporated? He zipped across the world, wherever he was, and stopped time. Which he could do because the stars remembered him and listened to him out of, Aziraphale suspected, some form of love, not duty. And he did that all to save an angel. An act that would earn him some sort of horrid punishment in Hell. Was that something they’d kill him over?  
  
Why would he risk that?  
  
Aziraphale took a small bite of his food, barely tasting it. He tried to say his next question sort of nonchalant, he didn’t want to scare Crowley off again.  
  
“So…did you like it? Building th-the stars?”  
  
“Damp’s gotta be wetter than moist.”  
  
The angel choked on his food, “I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You just said—“  
  
“Yeah, sorry, I wasn’t—I wasn’t really…listening.”  
  
“What were you thinking about?”  
  
“Uh. I,” he cleared his throat, “was trying to figure out if crepes got soggy. And then, I don’t know, from there it sort of just…tumbled, it’s hard to explain.”  
  
Aziraphale watched as Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, messed with the buttons on his coat. He was _embarrassed_. The angel couldn’t imagine why. Here he was, an incredibly powerful being, builder of _stars_ , (the angel would not soon get over that), it was understandable if things got a bit jumbled in his head. Who knew what literal secrets of the universe he was holding onto?  
  
But once Aziraphale managed to push his awe aside, he could see that no matter how incredible Crowley was, the demon obviously didn’t see himself that way. He’d worried one of his buttons loose from his cuff, his jaw was tight, his brow furrowed. He’d gone from embarrassed to angry, no doubt at himself. How many times before this, during their myriad lunches and dinners and teas, had he clamped down on letting this piece of him show?  
  
It wasn’t an answer to any of his questions about before the war, and it wasn’t that brilliant smile he’d seen only once, but it was a part of Crowley that Aziraphale hadn’t seen before and he needed him to know it was okay.  
  
“You know I think you’re right,” the angel said.  
  
“’Bout what?”  
  
“I think damp is wetter than moist.”  
  
He immediately perked up, “Right? Must be! No one washes their hair and says oh sorry can’t go out, hair’s _moist_. It’s damp. When do you even ever use ‘moist’?”  
  
“Cakes are moist.”  
  
“Are they?”  
  
“They can be.”  
  
His frown shifted from angry to contemplative, “What does that mean?”  
  
“They’re…sort of…soft?” Aziraphale was already trying not to laugh, he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, “In a…wet…way?”  
  
“Ugh! That’s disgusting!”  
  
He covered his mouth with his napkin, failing to keep his laughter in.  
  
“You eat that? You put that in your—why are you always putting things in your mouth that are disgusting? First the oysters, which were also wet in the most horrid way, thank you very much. And now, this, this moist cake substance—“  
  
Aziraphale waved his hand at Crowley, barely able to get the words out, his sides hurt. “Please…stop, I can’t…”  
  
“Honestly I don’t know why I spend any time with you at all.”  
  
“Oh you love it,” Aziraphale said, dabbing at his eyes.  
  
“Be that as it may," said Crowley, and Aziraphale's breath caught, "I do not trust you or your food. Next thing you know you’ll just be, eating it all raw, why bother cooking it at all? Just swallow a fish whole why don’t you?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“No,” Crowley said. “ _No._ Do not tell me there is—“  
  
“Sushi really is quite good,” Aziraphale said with a grin.  
  
“Oh for Satan’s sake. That’s it. I’m leaving.”  
  
Crowley pushed to his feet, guzzled the rest of his wine, and stalked off. Aziraphale barely had enough time to steal one last bite of his crepe, wipe his mouth, and leave some money on the table before running after the demon. He was still smiling when he caught up to him. He couldn’t stop smiling, it seemed. He felt…happy. Light. He glanced at Crowley and was overcome with the urge to entwine his arm with his as they walked down the street. But then he thought of their meal in Rome, when he’d suggested he rest his head on his shoulder. Crowley hadn’t reacted well to that. No, it seemed their friendship involved a strict no-touching rule. There would be no hugging or arm entwining or probably even a handshake.  
  
Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. He supposed he could live with that. They’d come pretty far already. Maybe in another 6,000 years Crowley would show him what this napping business was all about. For now, Aziraphale made himself content to explain, in excruciating detail, all the different kinds of sashimi he’d tried. Each horrified sound Crowley made only made Aziraphale laugh harder. He would have to wait until they were alone to tell him about roe and caviar, he had no doubt the demon would have a full conniption and he couldn’t wait to witness it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A chapter decidedly lacking in ANGST? Madness! But you know...we're creeping up on 1967 and we all know how that one goes. Soooo I guess enjoy it while it lasts?? Thank you for reading!! <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments, so sorry for the delay on this chapter!

-London, St. James’ Park, 1862-

Crowley stood in the park, watching the ducks putter back and forth, occasionally dunking their heads into the water, shaking out their wings. Wet wings sounded awful. Must be so heavy. He’d been careful to avoid letting his get wet. He still had a hard time with rain, even though he knew it wouldn’t burn, he’d seen what the rains of the war did to wings.

He shuddered.

And soon, or maybe not soon, who knew, it would happen all over again. Only this time on Earth. Ducks weren’t his favorite, he preferred pigeons, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see them _melt_. Because he had no doubt the holy rains would melt everything, demonic or otherwise, when the second war happened.

Armageddon is what it was being called, now.

Apparently, Satan had devised a plan to bring it about, this second war, this Armageddon. It involved evil horses? Or maybe evil people riding horses? The morality of the horses themselves was up for debate.

Horses were the worst. So stuck-up.

Crowley sniffed, gave himself a mental shake.

Armageddon. The first step was supposed to involve a child? Satan was sending his own child to Earth, the same as God had. Crowley wasn’t quite sure where they were getting these children. God made sense, she could blip whatever she wanted into existence but Satan had started off an angel like the rest of them so…how…? Did that mean all the angels could just…blip children into existence? That seemed like a lot of responsibility to take on with a single blip. Not that either God or Satan had any idea of that, because both of them had plans that involved sending their recently blipped children into a world all alone to fend for themselves with the sole purpose of furthering some insane goal their parents had and then ultimately die.

God and Satan had a lot in common, Crowley thought. Mostly that they were both shit parents.

He didn’t know when this was supposed to happen. When Beelzebub broke the news they had very little information to share.

Second war. Armageddon. Four bringers. Four morally grey horses. War and fire and death. And a child at the start of it that was apparently being called…the Anti-Christ.

Crowley thought that was just lazy on Satan’s part. The Anti-Christ. He was a little offended by it, honestly. Then he thought of what Jesus’ reaction might have been, ignoring all the stuff about war and fire and death, and he thought he might’ve laughed.

“Anti-Christ,” he might’ve said, making that face he made when he _knew_ what he was about to say was the absolute worst and he could barely keep it together long enough to get the words out, “or anti-climatic?”

The demon smirked.

He caught sight of Aziraphale coming down the path and his smirk faded.

Another war. Sides decided. He would be expected to fight. To kill.

He didn’t want to do any of that. He didn’t want to the first time and he didn’t want to this time and if anyone tried to hurt Aziraphale… He glanced over at the angel who was tossing food to the birds from out of his hat.

“Look,” Crowley said, “I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong? We’ve got a lot in common, you and me.”

“I don’t know. We may have both started out as angels, but you are Fallen.”

Crowley made a face. Fallen or not they were both going against direct orders and working with their supposed enemy. Neither of their bosses would take kindly to that. “I didn’t really fall,” he said, trying to make light of it, “I just…sauntered vaguely downwards. I need a favor.”

“We already have the agreement,” Aziraphale said.

Yes, the agreement Crowley insisted no one needed to know about but couldn’t deny that if anyone found out they’d be properly fucked. “This is something else,” he said, “for if it all goes pear-shaped.”

Aziraphale let out a small sigh, “I like pears,” he said quietly.

“If it all goes wrong,” Crowley pressed gently, bringing the angel back to the topic at hand in the same way the angel had done with him many times before. “I want insurance.”

“What?”

Crowley handed him a piece of paper. “I wrote it down. Walls have ears.” Shit, they were outside. “Well not walls, trees have ears.” Trees don’t have ears. “Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do. That’s how they hear other ducks.”

“Out of the question.”

It took Crowley a second to realize Aziraphale was talking about his request and not ducks having ears. “Why not?”

“It would destroy you.”

Only if he spilled it on himself.

“I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.”

Oh for, “That’s not what I want it for. Just insurance.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley.” It took a tight squeeze on his walking stick to keep the demon from remarking on that one. “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if…if they knew I’d been fraternizing? It’s completely out of the question.”

Did he know what trouble— _yes_. That was the entire point. If a demon came after Aziraphale he’d be able to help protect him with the holy water. They wouldn’t expect it from another demon. But all Crowley could manage to say between clenched teeth was, “Fraternizing?”

“Well, whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel.” It was a stupid retort and Crowley knew it but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Oh, of course you do.”

“I don’t need you,” he lied.

“Well and the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”

The angel tossed the paper into the water. Crowley set it on fire for good measure. “Obviously.”

Except he _did_ need Aziraphale. He always found himself coming back to the angel. He wasn’t going to let this be a repeat of the 12th century, he wasn’t going to walk away this time.

He shut his eyes and focused, searching for the threads of the angel’s essence, the blue of his halo, the after-image he left burned into the world between as he passed through. The demon had thrown himself into the task full force only to discover the angel hadn’t gone very far. Crowley thought he might have miracled himself back to his shop but he’d only walked a little ways down the path. He opened his eyes, steadying himself on his walking stick as the lightheadedness hit him full force. Luckily there weren’t any demons nearby either. Unsteady on his legs, Crowley miracled himself from point A to B, startling Aziraphale as the angel turned a corner and ran into him.

Aziraphale scoffed.

“Just lissssten,” Crowley hissed.

It wasn’t often he slipped into his more snake-like tendencies and hearing it made Aziraphale stop. That was good, the demon didn’t think he could chase after him without falling flat on his face. He’d exerted far too much energy, far too quickly.

“It’s not for that,” Crowley said. “It’s just in case something goes wrong. It’s for protection. I don’t exactly have a flaming sword at my disposal.”

“Yes well, neither do I, so I guess we’ll both just have to make do without becau—“

“Oh for—“

“ _Because_ ,” Aziraphale pressed, “I am not giving you holy water. It’s too dangerous! What if, what if another demon got their hands on it? They could destroy you!”

Crowley made a face, “Oh, come on—ple—I’d keep it locked away! And besides no demon is going to go near the stuff.”

“Because they’d be utterly mad to do so!”

“Exactly!”

The two stared at each other.

“So…” Crowley said, “we agree then.”

“No we don’t! I—“ Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Crowley. I won’t do it. It is too dangerous. You could get hurt or wor—“

“Oh please, I’m _Fallen_ , remember? As you just reminded me. A deeeeemon,” he said, leaning in towards the angel. “You’re not supposed to care what happens to the likes of me.”

“Well I do!”

Crowley stood up straight. Did he just say…

“I do. You don’t want to call it fraternizing, fine. But that’s what it is whether you want to admit it or not, we’ve been friends for centuries. Of course I care about you, you buffoon! And if you cared about me at all you wouldn’t ask such a thing of me.”

“If I cared…”

“That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.” Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat, fiddling with his pocket watch. “Good day.”

Crowley watched him walk away.

“If I care… _If_ I cared?” After all this time, damn near six millienia, the angel still questioned whether or not the demon cared. What was he supposed to do to show that he did? He saved him from being discorporated in France! He stopped time for him. A feat that left him sleeping for a solid year afterwards. They had the arrangement. They ate lunches and had dinners and drank wine and sometimes never even talked about work at all. He listened to him describe all that awful food he put in his mouth. He—

_**If**_ he cared?

Crowley watched the angel’s figure disappear down the street.

What was he doing? What had he spent the past six millennia doing if not showing Aziraphale how much he cared? How much he wanted to be near him? To listen to him talk so fondly about his books and what he’d recently read, something Crowley used to do before the war, to watch a play together and get drunk and stay up until dawn picking it apart, to sit in comfortable silence on a park bench.

What the heaven else was he supposed to do to show he _cared_?

He turned away, walking slowly down the street in the opposite direction, leaning a little on his cane. He was exhausted. Physically and emotionally. First he was going to rest. A decade or two sounded wonderful. Then he was going to leave. He was going to leave and he was going to live and he was going to find a way to do that without being tethered to Aziraphale. He was going to really do it this time. He’d spent a large portion of the 12th century sleeping and then he’d spent a lot of time traveling but he hadn’t spent a lot of time _living_. He couldn’t spend the next six millennia, assuming the Earth lasted that long, waiting for Aziraphale to see him, to really see him. That was no way to live, that was just a personal Hell of his own making.

He’d get his holy water some other way. Because he did care about Aziraphale, because he was his friend, and because he wasn't going to let anyone hurt him. Even if the idiot angel still couldn't see that.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a long one, folks!

\- London, 1941-

  
A _real_ miracle indeed, Aziraphale thought as the distinct whine of an incoming bomb echoed above them. What the hell had Crowley been thinking? Showing up in a church of all places, bouncing around from foot to foot because it _burned_ , making flippant comments, and acting as though this wasn’t the first time they’d seen each other in almost a century. Aziraphale would have been grinning with joy if he wasn’t so very distracted by trying to ensure they weren’t both discoporated into so many pieces.  
  
There was no way this was going to go unnoticed by someone at his head offices but he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Aziraphale shut his eyes and concentrated, pushing out his divine essence far enough to encircle the two of them. He hoped being shrouded in it wouldn’t cause Crowley harm but he hardly had time to worry about that. He tried to think of every possible thing that could go wrong—and protect them from it. The bomb itself, the building collapsing, debris, glass, fire, oh and the holy water. The last thing he wanted was to keep Crowley safe from everything else just for him to get a face full of spraying water droplets.  
  
It wasn’t at all an easy task.  
  
When the smoke cleared Aziraphale looked around at the smoldering rubble. Crowley stood, no longer hopping around, casually cleaning off his glasses. So it worked, he was alright. Idiot demon. Aziraphale wanted to throttle him but he reminded himself that Crowley had, once again, come out of nowhere to help him. Even though they hadn’t spoken in decades. The angel didn’t really know what he would have done to get himself out of that situation. He couldn’t exactly stop time.  
  
“That was very kind of you,” he said at last.  
  
Crowley slipped his glasses on, “Shut up.”  
  
“Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start.” At least, not for being discorporated. He imagined he’d have a lot of explaining to do regarding performing such a large miracle, and without revealing Crowley’s presence to boot. He himself could’ve just zipped off somewhere else, couldn’t he? What exactly had he been trying to save if not the church or the bo—“Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all the books! They’ll be blown to, to…”  
  
He trailed off, watching Crowley purposefully walk over to a section of rubble. A man’s arm stuck out, still holding the bag of literature. The demon yanked the bag free rather unceremoniously and held it out to Aziraphale.  
  
“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he said.  
  
Aziraphale took the bag, their fingers brushing.  
  
“Lift home?” Crowley asked, already walking off.  
  
The angel stared after him. He saved his books. A _little_ demonic miracle? He saved only his books, while they were still in the man’s hand. Not a scorch mark, a scratch in the leather, not a speck of dust. Once again Aziraphale was struck by how _powerful_ Crowley truly was. To pinpoint and protect such a specific area, an item, in the midst of all that destruction? He could’ve easily kept the two of them safe. Or stopped time for them to walk out. Or-or, who knew what else he could do?  
  
And he’d made the decision to save his books.  
  
That… that was an act of love. There was no way around it. No other way to interpret it. So selfless an act could only be an act of love. But demons weren’t capable of that, were they? Aziraphale suspected he cared, obviously, or he wouldn’t have saved him in Paris, or gone to check on him in the 14th century, or…any of the other things he’d done over the centuries. This felt different.  
  
He made his way through the rubble to where Crowley stood leaning against an automobile.  
  
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “You…have one of those.”  
  
“What’d you think I meant by a lift home?”  
  
“I was admittedly distracted by all of the bombing and fire, I didn’t really think about it.” Aziraphale swallowed, “I’ve never actually been in one.”  
  
“Really? First time for everything, come on.” Crowley opened the passenger side door for him. Just as Aziraphale was about to duck in he said, “Wait.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Did you really think they were working for me? That I could have anything to do with…any of this?”  
  
Aziraphale’s heart dropped and he clutched the bag to his chest. “No. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Not even in jest. You’re not…you’re not evil, Crowley.”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“ _No_. You’re not.” He wanted to reach out to him but settled for squeezing the bag. “I’m sorry,” he said again.  
  
Crowley nodded.  
  
“Was there any truth to what you said? That they wouldn’t enjoy what comes next? Are they really going—“  
  
“Oh _yeeessss_. Express ticket.”  
  
The angel took a deep breath. “Good,” he said, and climbed into the car.  
  
The door slammed beside him and he flinched. He watched Crowley walk around the front and to the other side, sliding in with that liquid grace unique only to him and cats. The car started with a distinct lack of any of the actual turning of keys or movement of levers or whatever it was that got cars going. Crowley sat down and it just started, then they were off.  
  
It wasn’t very long before it occurred to Aziraphale he’d never been in such tight quarters with the demon. They’d sat together at restaurants or shows and the like, but this felt different. Like they were in their own private bubble. As though whatever was said would stay within the confines of the automobile, for better or worse.  
  
He hadn’t missed Crowley’s comment on the holy water back in the church. Apparently the demon hadn’t given up on his quest. Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about that though. He didn’t want to get into another argument. Not when last time he accused the man of not caring about him and now he sat clutching a bag full of books that ought to be nothing more than charred leather and ash.  
  
A lot had happened in the past eight or so decades. He refused to feel guilty for drawing the line where he had, getting Holy Water for him, which meant he also refused to wallow in loneliness for over a century like he had last time they argued. And so, the angel lived a little and in the process had discovered…quite a bit a bit about himself. Things that changed how he viewed Crowley and their…friendship. In the past he’d been able to attribute Crowley’s eccentricities and the way he always seemed to show up just in the nick of time as an attempt to keep their work arrangement intact. It was purely business. But now…  
  
He stole a sideways glance at the demon. At Anthony. It was clear he’d changed as well and Aziraphale wasn’t sure where that left the two of them.  
  
“So…” he finally managed, “what have you been up to?”  
  
“Eh,” Crowley said with a shrug, “slept a bit.”  
  
“Again?”  
  
“Not for long, just a decade or so. Then I traveled. Spent a large portion of the ‘20s in America. Speakeasies were prime temptation grounds let me tell you, angel. And, well, I liked the clothes.”  
  
Yes, he’d always been good with human fashion.  
  
“You?” asked Crowley.  
  
“Well, I, uh, not much really. Oh, I learned a dance!”  
  
Crowley turned to him then, taking his eyes off the road which made Aziraphale’s hands twitch in panic. “You learned to dance?”  
  
“I-well-yes-I-p-please look at the road!” He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said again, when Crowley was facing forward once more. “Well, _a_ dance. Just the one.”  
  
“I didn’t know angels could that.”  
  
And he didn’t know demons were capable of acts of love yet here they were.  
  
They drove on in silence for a bit, Crowley taking in their surroundings with a grimace. Many of the buildings were damaged, rubble and debris in the streets.  
  
“Angel, are you really staying in London through this?”  
  
“I don’t think it’ll go on for much longer.”  
  
Crowley looked at him. “What were you even doing meeting with people like that? What did you _possibly_ think you could accomplish?”  
  
The angel shifted in his seat. “Well obviously I didn’t know I was being double-crossed!”  
  
“That’s hardly the point. Why get involved at that personal a level to begin with?”  
  
“Because I’m not allowed to do anything else! I got…I got in trouble for protecting humans from the blasts, and then I got in trouble for…intercepting communications, and so they’re keeping watch on how many miracles I perform and where and why. So I thought, they wouldn’t care enough to actually pay attention to my non-angelic movements about Earth. I…I had to do _something_.”  
  
The demon didn’t respond and only continued to stare ahead, his scowl deep.  
  
“Oh do say something.”  
  
“Has it ever occurred to you that you are, perhaps, the very best that Heaven has to offer and you are too good to keep yourself bound up by their insane rules and bloody bureaucratic bullshit?”  
  
Aziraphale stared at him. “Crowley…”  
  
“Well it’s true.” The car turned a corner rather tightly and came to an abrupt stop. “We’re here.”  
  
“Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale turned toward the door but wasn’t entirely sure how to open it. He thought for a moment of just miracling it open to avoid the embarrassment but then he’d have to explain that on top of everything else.  
  
Crowley got out and Aziraphale watched him come around the front and then open the door for him. The angel sheepishly slipped out of the car.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Mhmm.” There was that hint of a smirk Aziraphale had come to love so much.  
  
Crowley pushed the door closed and started back for the driver’s side and Aziraphale panicked.  
  
“Wait!”  
  
The demon jerked to a stop, hands raised. He looked from Aziraphale to the car. “What? What is it?”  
  
“Uh, would you…would you like to come in? We could have a drink, catch up?”  
  
Crowley looked from him to the front of the bookshop, taking in the broken windows on one side, half covered with some wooden slats, and then down the empty street. He shoved his hands in his pockets, “Yeah alright,” he said as he sauntered toward the entrance.  
  
Aziraphale was glad to be walking behind him because he physically couldn’t stop himself from smiling.  
  
“Just a moment,” Azirpahale said once they were inside, gently closing the door. “Let me get some light, electricity’s been out for weeks.”  
  
“They won’t even let you protect your own home?”  
  
“Well no, I could,” Aziraphale answered over his shoulder as he lit a small oil lamp on his desk. “It just doesn’t seem right. To keep myself completely free of harm when everyone else is—oh!”  
  
He turned around to find Crowley standing right beside him.  
  
“Is that really safe?” he asked with a nod toward the oil lamp. “Around all these dusty books?”  
  
“I assure you I’m quite careful.”  
  
The two stood staring at each other a moment. The light of the lamp barely penetrated Crowley’s glasses. He still wore his hat, which cast shadows where the dim light didn’t reach. He looked down at the angel, that same hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth and Aziraphale found he was having a difficult time focusing. How the devil did this feel even closer than when they were in the car?  
  
“Drinks, angel?”  
  
“Right! Yes. Drinks.” He handed the lamp to Crowley, “Here, I know my way without it. Feel free to look around, there’ve been quite a few additions since you were last here after all.”  
  
Aziraphale disappeared into the back, only tripping over a stack of books once in his haste. He found a bottle of something, he wasn’t sure what, he didn’t bother to read the label, it was red and that was all he needed to know, and poured two small cordial glasses. After a moment’s hesitation he downed one and then refilled it.  
  
He found Crowley wandering the aisles further in the shop, not even bothering to hold the lamp, it just floated behind him.  
  
“ _Crowley_. Now that’s dangerous, what if you lose your concen…tra…tion…”  
  
The demon had turned around when Aziraphale said his name. He’d taken his glasses off while wandering and the angel was hit with the realization that since many of their meetings had been in public places or during business hours at the shop, it’d been a long time since he’d seen Crowley without them on. It was usually just a peek of his serpentine eyes over the tops, a hint at the corners. Even back at the church it had been so quick. But now he was pinned under the full, unfiltered gaze of his eyes.  
  
“Well there isn’t exactly somewhere to put it down, angel. I’m, thank you,” he said, taking one of the glasses, “I’m not going to put it on the floor or a shelf. Really, open flame shouldn’t be anywhere within a mile of this place.” He took a sip of his wine and went back to reading the spines of books in front of him.  
  
Aziraphale plucked the oil lamp out of mid-air and set on the floor off to the side. “It’ll be fine.”  
  
“Your funeral,” Crowley said under his breath.  
  
The two wandered down the length of the aisle in quiet. Crowley occasionally picking a book out at random to examine before putting it back. Aziraphale had wanted to catch up, to hear about his traveling, to maybe confide in him about his own adventures, he knew Crowley was the only one he could tell, the only one he _wanted_ to tell, but he didn’t know how or where to start.  
  
They reached the end of the aisle, the glow of the lamp distant and dim. Every so often Crowley’s amber eyes would catch a hint of light as he scanned the shelves and it made Aziraphale’s breath catch.  
  
“Can I ask you a question?” Crowley said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Why books? You could have any kind of shop, any of kind of pastime. What is it about books specifically?”  
  
Crowley had been staring at the same section of shelf in a way that made Aziraphale suspect the demon wasn’t really looking at the books so much as avoiding looking at him.  
  
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I suppose, well, they sort of transport me somewhere. Not in the way that most people would mean, however. No, they all take me to the same place.”  
  
The demon frowned but still didn’t look at him. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Oh, this is going to sound ridiculous, don’t laugh.”  
  
“No promises.”  
  
Aziraphale rolled the empty cordial glass between his hands, “When I’m reading, I just, I feel at peace. Something in me feels at home, something in my heart and soul and… it’s almost like a memory. Not of any particular event, mind. A memory of a feeling. That’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” When the demon didn’t respond Aziraphale looked up to see him staring hard at the books in front of him. “Crowley?”  
  
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”  
  
“Do you…” he hesitated, this was new territory, another chance to learn about his past. He lowered his voice, “Do you have anything like that?”  
  
“A memory I hold onto?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Crowley was quiet so long Aziraphale didn’t think he would answer him at all. Finally he said, “No. Not anymore.”  
  
“Oh,” the angel said. “Why?”  
  
“The past is the past. It’s, y’know, alright to look back on fondly every so often but I can’t, I _can’t_ hold on to it.”  
  
He thought of their conversations back in the 1600s, when Aziraphale began to suspect that maybe Crowley had lost someone in the war. If he had and this was him saying he was making the decision to move forward, after more than six millennia… “It must hurt,” he said without thinking.  
  
“Every day,” the demon said and although his voice was low Aziraphale could hear clearly the heart-wrenching honesty in it. “But,” he continued, “it’s…it’s better.”  
  
“It is?”  
  
“Yeah, I can focus on the present. Which is good. I’d much rather give all my attention,” he turned, finally, his amber eyes locking with Aziraphale’s, “to what’s in front of me.”  
  
“Oh,” he said in a quiet voice.  
  
Crowley’s gaze shifted and he titled his head. “You’ve got rubble in your hair, angel.”  
  
Before Aziraphale could really move, his brain still trying to process everything that had just been said, Crowley reached out and had his fingers in the angel’s hair. Aziraphale heard the quiet _tik_ of the debris hitting the floor when Crowley tossed it behind him. But his hand didn’t go back to his side or his pocket or even a book. It went back to Aziraphale’s hair. His fingertips playing at the curls, gently combing them out, soft and cautious. The angel kept his eyes focused on the rise and fall of the demon’s chest, he couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. Crowley’s fingers burrowed a little deeper, gently massaging the angel’s scalp and oh…it felt wonderful. Without thinking, Aziraphale closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, a quiet murmur escaping him.  
  
He felt as much as he heard Crowley take a step closer. “Aziraphale…”  
  
Aziraphale snapped to, jerking his head away and taking a step back. “Oh! Terribly sorry, excuse me. I um,” he cleared throat.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“I uh, I just remembered that I have quite a bit of work to do.”  
  
“Work?”  
  
“Mhm,” he said, looking around the aisle at nothing in particular, anything at all, so long as it wasn’t Crowley. “Angelic stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“So…so I’ll see you later, then? Well not later, tomorrow. I-I mean, maybe not tomorrow per se, just eventually, in the future I hope. We can, we can do lunch sometime?”  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said, setting his empty glass down. “Sure thing, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale watched him slip his glasses on and walk past him, toward the front door. “Try not to get blown up!” he called over his shoulder, his voice casual and teasing.  
  
The door closed gently behind him.  
  
A moment later the car’s headlights filled the street and then quickly disappeared with a skid.  
  
Aziraphale stood frozen. He allowed himself a moment to take a few deep breaths. After centuries and centuries of nothing, after Rome, and Aziraphale fighting back every urge he had to reach out to Crowley and take his hand or arm or give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, to show his affection in _any_ physical way, after all that… His cheek still felt warm where it had rested against Crowley’s hand.  
  
And the way he said his name… Had it always been like this? The last eight decades had made him a little less naïve and now he was acutely aware of the effect the demon had on him. He thought back to the little rush he used to get whenever he heard Crowley’s voice, soft at his ear over the centuries. When he appeared out of nowhere in Paris. The ache he felt whenever they were apart for decades at a time, whenever they argued. That smile on the wall of Eden. Oh good _lord_ that smile. The way they talked over drinks about plays and humans and all the wonderful things Earth had to offer.  
  
The angel took a small gasp of a breath. That was love. He’d always known there was a hint of it. He loved the demon, of course he did, he was a creature of love.  
  
But he was starting to understand that he might be _in_ love with him and that? That was something else entirely.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we've been following (roughly) the timeline of the episode 3 cold open but don't worry! This doesn't end with the 1967 scene, we're going all the way to Armageddon baby!

-London’s Soho, 1967-

  
Crowley made his way to the Bentley, running his hand over the hood. A Witchfinder’s Army, huh? Well he supposed he’d heard of weirder things. This heist was utterly ridiculous, for one. It was more to see if a person really could be lowered into a building like he’d seen in that movie than anything else. He suspected the one pulling the ropes would get yanked right off their feet, it just didn’t add up. He ran his fingers over the clear plastic bullet hole decals on the window. He had had his doubts but they _did_ look quite sleek, more so because they weren’t real. The thought of real bullet holes in his beautiful car made him shudder.  
  
The demon had just closed the door when there was suddenly an angel in the passenger seat.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I needed a word with you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I work in Soho. I hear things.”  
  
Crowley just barely stopped himself from scoffing out loud. When would Aziraphale’s social circles _ever_ collide with his own? He wouldn’t hear anything unless he was actively trying to.  
  
“I hear that you’re setting up a…caper to rob a church. Crowley it’s too dangerous. Holy water won’t just…”  
  
The first time in six thousand years the angel comes to him and it’s to rehash an argument they’d already had. “You told me what you think,” Crowley said, “a hundred and five years ago.”  
  
“And I haven’t changed my mind.”  
  
Crowley tried to think of a way to end this before they wound up not speaking for another century.  
  
“But I can’t have you risking your life so…” Aziraphale held out a thermos, “you can call off the robbery. Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”  
  
It took the demon a full moment to realize what he was looking at. Slowly, he took the thermos. He’d expected it to feel heavy, heavier than something with ordinary liquid in it. He thought it might burn a little. Or glow.  
  
“It’s the real thing?” he asked.  
  
“The holiest.”  
  
“After everything you said…” He looked at Aziraphale, “Should I…say ‘thank you’?”  
  
“Better not.”  
  
Oh. He had to do something, something to show his angel what this meant to him. “Well can I drop anywhere?”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
What was this? Did giving him holy water mean they were done with one another? Because if that was the price…  
  
“Oh don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps one day we could…I don’t know, go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”  
  
One day? Why not right away? Why wait? “I’ll give you a lift,” he said, a little desperately, “anywhere you want to go.”  
  
Aziraphale looked at him then, really looked at him. Crowley thought he might say yes. He thought he might offer him that nervous little smile of his and pull on his seat belt and tell him to drive, to pick a destination.  
  
“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”  
  
And then he left.  
  
Crowley looked down at the thermos in his hands. Too fast? A picnic? What did…  
  
He fairly kicked open driver’s side door and jumped out, “Angel!”  
  
Aziraphale was already halfway down the block and turned around in surprise.  
  
“What the devil does that mean?” Crowley shouted.  
  
With a glance around him, the angel quickly made his way back to the car, his voice a harsh whisper. “What are you shouting about?”  
  
Crowley didn’t bother to lower his own voice, “What does that mean? I go too fast for you?”  
  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. He rung his hands together. Glanced about. “I…you know what it means.”  
  
He knew what he _hoped_ it meant. “No,” he said. “No, I do not. I am standing here and I am telling you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
The angel looked down at his feet, “Oh dear. Perhaps I’ve…given the wrong impression.”  
  
“Or the _right_ one,” Crowley said. “But I don’t know because I don’t know for sure what you’re talking about. Please. Just…just say it, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale looked up at him and Crowley couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen those bright eyes of his look so frightened. The demon wanted to reach out and smooth the crease in the angel’s brow with his thumb. He wanted to hold him and tell him to breathe deep and that it would be okay. He wanted to kiss the corners of his eyes, kiss the worry away. He wanted to kiss him and hold him and feel the weight of his body against his chest and let the angel know him as he once had. All he need do was say it.  
  
“I can’t,” Aziraphale said. “I…get that locked away before some sees. And for Heaven’s sake, drive carefully.”  
  
Then he walked away.  
  
And Crowley let him.  
  
He got back in his car, set the thermos gently in the passenger seat, and drove.  
  
He did drive carefully. Slowly. All around and through London. He didn’t go home, he didn’t go anywhere, he just drove. Took a turn at a light when it seemed a good idea, went straight on, winding and driving and thinking. It was nearly dawn by the time he’d found himself idling outside his flat.  
  
Eventually he made his way in, vaguely aware of opening the front door.  
  
“It’s me,” he said, automatically.  
  
The lights came on in the rooms as he stepped through them, making his way to a small nook just outside his office. It was mostly empty except for a single window and the single plant that sat in its sill.  
  
Crowley looked down at the plant.  
  
“He said I go too fast.”  
  
The plant looked back.  
  
Crowley disappeared into his office, placing the thermos inside a safe hidden behind a painting worth more to any human than the actual contents of the safe itself.  
  
He stepped back into the plant’s room.  
  
“What does that mean? What the _bloody hell_ does that mean, too fast? I,” he sighed, “I touched his face. Once. Twenty. Six. Years ago. I mean yeah, yes, alright I almost kissed him, I thought very hard about kissing him but I didn’t and he pulled away besides. All I did was save some books and touch his stupid, blessed cheek and that’s _too fast?_ After six millen—oh my—Go—for fuck’s sake.”  
  
The plant might have sighed.  
  
Crowley took up the little water mister from the other end of the sill, giving small, sporadic spritzes. “But…too fast doesn’t mean not at all. It just means slower, yeah? Does that mean he… I mean eventually that he’ll want…? No, no we’re not doing this. We swore we wouldn’t do this again. He is not the same angel, we know that. I am not the same angel, I know that. I love him, but I won’t be defined by that. Or him. Or his inability to commit or even _ad_ mit or, or, for Satan’s sake glaciers are melting faster than him!”  
  
If plants at all had the capability to, this one might have sneezed.  
  
Crowley stopped spritzing and realized the little plant’s leaves were drooping, weighed down and dripping with water. “Oh, love,” he said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Gently, he wiped each leaf with his hand, miracling away the excess water.  
  
“Too fast, eh? Well then he can make the next move. We can wait, can’t we? It’s not all bad, hasn’t been for a while. Even if he never…if I’m misinterpreting this and he was talking about the bloody _car_ , what we have is...it’s so much more than I thought we could after the war. I know that. I’m just greedy.”  
  
He took a step back.  
  
The plant stood to its tallest height. A very impressive foot and a half.  
  
“Look at you,” Crowley said. “Radiant. Thank you for listening, love.” He glanced around the empty room. “Let’s get you a mate, yeah?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!  
> I'm so sorry for the delay on this one, I moved and it took a while to get my internet set up again. On the bright side, I had some time to sort of roughly outline the rest of the story and I daresay we're at the halfway mark! Or just about. I'm SO excited for all the little things I have planned for you all.  
> Comments are love, thank you so much for reading!

-The Bookshop, 1978-

Crowley lay sprawled across the couch in the back of Aziraphale’s shop. The angel had gotten it just for him as they began to spend more time there and watching Crowley pace back and forth and fairly slither around got rather unnerving after a while. So he’d ordered something a little more comfortable for the demon. It was a nice brown leather instead of the black he was sure Crowley would have preferred, and a very comfortable throw had found itself a home across the back.

Or across Crowley when he’d had too much and passed out before he remembered to sober up.

At some point in the past decade or so they stopped trying to come up with excuses to see one another, the Arrangement hadn’t been mentioned in quite some time, and instead Crowley would just show up with a bottle of wine, or a new book, and he’d ask about Aziraphale’s day and he’d listen, rapt, always rapt, as the angel recounted an experience with a customer or a new restaurant he’d tried or a copy of a tragically mis-printed Bible he’d gotten his hands on. And so, the couch seemed like a logical and practical next step.

Only Aziraphale had failed to take into account that Crowley was physically incapable of using any piece of furniture how it might have been intended and was often sitting on the arm, (which had taken Aziraphale a few weeks to adjust to), or bent up in some way that was part snake and part accordion, his feet on the cushions (which had taken Aziraphale considerably longer to school his face into not twitching whenever the bottom of Crowley’s shoe made contact with the couch, it was, after all, for the demon, he reminded himself, and he could use it however he wanted even if it was slovenly and unkempt).

But then there were times when the demon would sprawl, much as he was now, long and languid and…lovely. He seemed to be letting his hair grow out, it was past his shoulders now, a little voluminous in the way that was popular among women of the time and it pooled under his head. He’d finally gotten rid of that hideous mustache he’d been sporting for what felt like eternity. Aziraphale had hated it but would never tell Crowley that. It was his human-like corporation, he could do what he wanted with it.  
  
The demon held his glasses in one hand, nibbling on the end of one side, but kept his eyes hidden behind the crook of his arm.

Aziraphale turned back to the book on his desk and re-read the same paragraph he’d already read at least six times.

“I hate this song,” Crowley said around his glasses.

Aziraphale turned. There was a radio on the floor by the couch. Sometimes he would agree to a pause on his usual preferences and let Crowley play what he liked. It was often some station that played things modern and current and all the rage; Aziraphale had gotten very good at tuning it out.

It helped that most bebop sounded like white noise to him. He squinted as he focused on what was actually playing. “Oh is this the one with the…the wet pastries?”

“Angel, I would pay exorbitant amounts of money to never hear the phrase ‘wet pastries’ come out of your mouth again, it’s…uncomfortable. Anyway, yes, sort’ve. The metaphor is cake.”

“Right yes, with the green icing. Flowing in the rain. What a terrible visual—why green?”

“I’ve no idea, angel.”

“Would you like me to turn it off?” he asked, and even he could hear the hopeful tilt of his voice.

Crowley, however, apparently did not. “No, it’s fine, I…also really like it.”

“Oh for—“

“Well, I mean,” he launched upwards, “the metaphors are bloody awful and all over the place, literally just all over the place, but Donna’s version _is_ a decided improvement on Richard’s, which always made me feel like he was whispering creepily into my ear. But once you get to the heart of it, well…” he caught Aziraphale’s gaze and then sighed. “You’ve never listened to it, have you? No idea what it’s about.”

“I…there’s cake involved?”

Crowley fell backwards on to the couch with a groan, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh and baking! There’s a recipe mentioned.”

“I’m going to get it tattooed on my face,” he mumbled, “it’s the only way you’ll see it.”

Before Aziraphale could ask what the ‘it’ was, the bell on the front door chimed and was shortly followed by a “Hello” that tried very hard to be both casual and sensual and failed at every mark. The angel stayed in his seat.

“Mr. Feeeell?”

Crowley slid his hand from his face down to his chest and twisted round a bit to look at Aziraphale, “You’ve a customer.”

“Have I?”

“Mr. FeeEEeeell?”

“Yes. He’s literally singing your name.”

Aziraphale let out a huff and got up, fussing with his waistcoat. May as well get it over with. He made his way to the front of the store, keenly aware that suddenly the music on the radio had lowered to a barely audible level; of course Crowley was going to listen in on this.

“Hello, Andrew.”

“I told you ‘Andy’ is just fine.” The human wore very large pants, Aziraphale thought they might be called bell...hems? There was quite a lot of…skin visible on his top half. A mesh shirt over a white sleeveless something-or-other. It was hideous. Well hideous on him. He was sure in a different color, black perhaps, and on a different person, who smelled just a little of brimstone…he cleared his throat.

“What a…surprise.”

“I was in the neighborhood! Listen,” he leaned on a shelf, his elbow nudging a book just out of place, “I know you said you had plans this weekend, but I was thinking I might be able to tempt you to a little soiree at an art gallery later in the week?”

“Yes that does sound rather…tempting,” Aziraphale heard the tell-tale snort of a swallowed laugh from the back room. “But I will have to pass.”

“Aw, c’mon, love, it’ll be—“

“No. Thank you.”

The human sighed, pushed off the shelf, nudging the book further out of place and said, “Alright, I can take a hint.”

Could he, though? This was the third such attempt that week.

He followed Andrew to the front door, intent to lock it after he left. On the threshold the human turned around, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, wiggling his hips in what Aziraphale assumed was meant to be seductive, and bit his lip, “You suuuure?”

_“Quite.”_

The door closed with a definitive thud.

Not a moment later the demon’s laughter roared from the back room. Aziraphale turned to see Crowley leaning against a shelf. He always managed to do it without moving anything out of place unless he was intentionally being a brat. His arms were crossed, a smirk on his face, his serpentine eyes narrowed, wild with amusement and a hint of mischief. All that effort the human put into being sensual and tempting and here Crowley fairly dripped with it and Aziraphale knew he wasn’t even trying.

“ _That_ was something,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale ignored him and went to fix the book ‘Andy’ had displaced.

“He was interested in you, angel.”

“I’m aware, yes. I’m not an idiot.”

“You can be incredibly slow to pick up on hints.”

“Not when someone is practically screaming them at me, no.”

Crowley made an odd strangled sound in the back of his throat. “Anyway, why’d you turn him down? You don’t have anything planned this weekend, I’d know.”

Aziraphale busied himself with straightening the rest of the books, as if they had been tainted by the other.

“It could be fun! Go out with a human, have some food, some wine, experience all those earthly pleasuresssss.”

“Crowley!”

“What?” He put his hands in his pockets, gave a half-hearted shrug, “It’s not that big a deal…right?”

“You are not going to tempt me into, I don’t even know how to put it, _indulging_ with a human, for Heaven’s sake.”

“You never know…might be something you like?”

Except he did know and with that knowledge came the distinct understanding that a human would never be enough. “I don’t have any interest in humans.”

“Oooh.”

Aziraphale could _hear_ Crowley’s smirk. He kept his attention on the books in front of him as Crowley slithered closer.

“Is there an angel that’s caught your fancy, then?” he teased.

“Something like that,” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley.

The laughter and silliness drained from the demon’s face and he stood up a little straighter. Oh no, no, he must have though Aziraphale really did mean there was an angel in Heaven and not someone he considered angelic in a decidedly demonic way here on Earth.

“Come on,” Crowley said suddenly, walking around Aziraphale and to the door. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late? Whatever for?”

Crowley held up two pieces of paper. From where he stood, without his glasses, Aziraphale couldn’t read them. He could, if he chose not to rely on the limitations of his human-like corporation but there was hardly any fun in that. “What are those?”

“Tickets. To that,” Crowley waved his other hand in slow, lazy circles, “that orchestra or other you wanted to see.”

“Oh! That’s sold out! How did you ge—wait, how _did_ you get those?”

Crowley gave a mock pout with a tilt of his head, “Not interested? Should I take _Andy_ , then?”

“Alright, alright, I didn’t say that. Just…just let me get my coat.”

Aziraphale made his way to the back, picking the radio up off the floor and setting it on Crowley’s couch. As he shrugged on his jacket, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder blades. He winced, rolling out one shoulder and then the other. He must be hunching over when he’s at his desk again. He turned to go and noticed a feather on the floor, one of his. “Oh,” he said as he stooped to pick it up, “what happened to you?”

“We’re going to miss the overture!”

“Yes, alright!” Aziraphale said. “Not with the way you drive,” he muttered under his breath as he set the feather down on his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song they're listening to is Donna Summer's rendition of MacArthur Park. The lyrics are positively batshit and it's one of my absolute favorite songs because of it. (Also it's a total bop.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2YcU24Wsf0
> 
> The original was first recorded by Richard Harris but I don't like it, lol.
> 
> And then there's the MacArthur Park EXTENDED SUITE which is like 17 freaking minutes long and is actually a mash-up of MacArthur Park and 2 other songs by Donna, "One of A Kind" and "Heaven Knows". The Suite may have released first? I don't know. Just enjoy these sweet disco jams :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zue7wsi_xeo


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh thank you everyone for all your kind and supportive comments!! Here's some fluff for all your patience and support (before we get back into angst lol).

-The Bookshop, 1985-

Crowley sauntered up the front steps of the bookshop. It was closed and the door locked but it swung open easily for him. Aziraphale had mentioned getting a new shipment of books in and Crowley knew that would take all of his attention for the rest of the evening. Which was why he had plans to go and flop on the very comfortable couch in the back room and listen to the angel tut over the condition of the boxes, because they never arrived to his standards, hum pleasantly to himself, and generally fawn over the literature.

Crowley never forgot what Aziraphale had said back in ’41. That the books transported him to a memory, one that made him feel complete. That had destroyed Crowley at first. The idea of Aziraphale just barely grasping the edges of a memory from before. Of a time when Crowley would sneak into the libraries of Heaven and read and learn. They weren’t books exactly, they weren’t even book or scroll or tablet shaped, it was just…knowledge. He would go and he would learn and he would share it with Aziraphale, recounting it as best he could. And the angel would ask him questions and he almost never had the answer but they would try and figure it out together.

But now Crowley was able to find the joy in it. It wasn’t the same as before, nothing was, but it was damn close. Aziraphale had his, Crowley’s, fondness for literature, and Crowley had a rather quickly expanding plant room. He thought of showing it to Aziraphale but couldn’t think of a casual reason to invite the angel to his apartment. The Bookshop was the Bookshop. It was both Aziraphale’s home and wasn’t. It wasn’t where the angel rested his head because he didn’t rest at all. And so it always felt like neutral ground. There were books and music and wine and conversation. Crowley’s place had wine and plants.

He didn’t even have a couch.

“Hello, angel!” he called out.

“In the back!”

He winded around a few stacks of books on the floor; Aziraphale must be planning to rearrange—again. Crowley would have a nap while that business went on.

“Hey,” he said, “did everything arrive in one…”

Aziraphale stood in the main area of the back room, main as in it wasn’t the tucked corner where the couch and his desk were, an array of open and unopen boxes at his feet. He had a book in his hand, another tucked under his arm, as he slowly and carefully looked at the binding. What had stopped Crowley short were the angel’s arms.

He’d taken off his jacket, which was fine, his waistcoat and bowtie and shirt were all in place…mostly. Aziraphale had rolled up his sleeves. Rolled. Them up. Crowley’s brain felt like it was short-circuiting. He hadn’t rolled them up far, just a couple of turns, about halfway up his forearm, just enough to rummage around in a box of dusty books without ruining his cuffs Crowley figured.

The effect this had was purely unique to the Aziraphale-of-now. Aziraphale-before wasn’t nearly as prim and proper and stuffy, mostly because none of the fashions of humans, or humans for that matter, existed yet. But the Aziraphale-of-now was a different story. There were things from before that Crowley had taken great enjoyment in teasing the angel over, his inability to string together a half decent constellation for one thing (two dippers, really?), and there were things the angel used to tease him for, like his inability to braid his own hair back when it was so very long. But this, this was something new and unique to now and Crowley was eager to make a fresh memory for the two of them. One they would _both_ have.

The angel looked up, “Oh Crowley! What were you saying? I wasn’t listening. What’s that look for?”

Crowley felt the smirk creep across his face. “Why Aziraphale, I’m _shocked_.”

“What? Why?” He looked down at the boxes, “What’s happened?”

“I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Crowley?”

The demon slinked over, “Look at you, showing all. That. Skin!”

Aziraphale frowned and looked down as though his pants may have disappeared without his knowing and then his gaze tracked to his arms and he let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh for Heaven’s sake.” He turned his attention back to the book in his hand.

The demon leaned back gently against a bookshelf, “It’s scandalous, angel. You’re practically naked.”

The angel huffed and Crowley reveled in seeing him flustered. There was nothing particularly sexual about a pair of wrists, it wasn’t that, it was that he could see himself teasing Aziraphale about this for the foreseeable future and he thought to get a head start.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale said.

“I don’t think you’ve shown this much _bare flesh_ since Rome. Your whole arm was exposed! Right up to the shoulder! However did you show your face in public?”

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong glance.

“Naughty angel,” Crowley said barely able to keep his laughter in.

“Yes, alright, are you quite done?”

Crowley thought about it, “Yeah I think that’s all I’ve got for now.”

“Good. Here.” He hefted half a dozen books into Crowley’s hands, “Hold these for me.”

“What? No! No no no, I _hate_ when you rearrange the shop. It never follows any sort of sense and it takes forever. I’m not helping with that!”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, searching the shelves by Crowley’s head for another book, “you should have thought of that before waltzing in here on a delivery day.”

Crowley groaned. He had half a mind to just miracle the books onto the couch and slink off. He almost did as much but then Aziraphale took half a step over, moving just a bit closer to Crowley, his focus still on the shelves. Crowley tried not to stare at the angel’s face, all screwed up in thought, and looked away only to find himself staring right at that bare wrist of his as he slowly searched the spines of the books.

The demon swallowed.

Suddenly all of his teasing came right back around to bite him. Aziraphale _hadn’t_ shown that much skin since Rome. Crowley had just sort of come to see the angel as one complete set. He was that ridiculous out of date suit, tartan and all, and fluffy hair and perhaps only the truly genuine smile on the planet and now, now his bare wrist was two inches from the demon’s face and Crowley was reminded that there was, in fact, more angel beneath all that and he had the near-uncontrollable urge to fully turn his head and plant a very chaste kiss on that scandalous wrist, even though it would likely discorporate them both on the spot.

He swallowed again. What on Earth was taking him so long to find whatever the Heaven he was looking for?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said quietly, his gaze still on the shelf.

“Hmn?” Crowley looked ahead, but that just put the angel’s face back in his sites.

“You alright, my dear?”

_My dear_ , Crowley noted. Not my dear boy or my good man. “’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Aziraphale gave the world’s smallest shrug. “You just seem a bit,” he moved his arm a little closer, “flushed is all.”

The angel was still looking at the shelf but Crowley was almost positive there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Ah, here it is,” Aziraphale said, retrieving a book and moving away to put it on a stack on the floor. He looked over at Crowley with that innocent, although the demon was truly beginning to have doubts, smile of his. “Shall we get to work?”

Crowley gaped. What was he supposed to say to that? No, no he didn’t want to stay and work on the stupid reorganizing of the shop that didn’t sell anything at all. He wanted to call his angel out on what he was beginning to believe was some rather blatant, at least by Aziraphale’s standards, flirting. But he couldn’t exactly say, “Excuse me, you can’t just flagrantly wave your bare wrists in my direction without an explanation.” This wasn’t the 18-bloody-00’s. So he was stuck agreeing to help and hope an opportunity to clarify that what just happened was in fact what just happened, would present itself.

As Crowley set the books on the floor and settled in next to Aziraphale he got the distinct feeling he had just fallen victim to a rather sneaky temptation.


	17. Chapter 17

-Somewhere in London, 1994-

An angel and a demon walked down a busy London street, talking about nothing in particular. It was cold out and Aziraphale kept his gloved hands in his pockets. Which, he thought, was for the better since every few minutes he tried to convince himself he really could reach out and take Crowley’s arm and then would shoot the idea down just as quickly. He looked over at the demon, who had changed his look once again.

After the 70s and 80s he seemed to be burnt out on big hair and instead had let his hair grow long and straight. Currently it was pulled back into a high ponytail, the wind blowing messy strands about his face. He wore earrings, which was rare for him. Small gold hoops. A grey turtleneck under a black leather jacket. Aziraphale was sure the demon had miracled the pockets to be large enough to fit his hands, (nails painted, another rarity) cause they didn’t seem like they could hold much of anything otherwise.

“You know, angel,” Crowley said suddenly, “just because the glasses are tinted doesn’t mean I can’t _see_ you.”

Aziraphale blinked, “What?”

“You’re staring at me, why?”

“I was just…wondering if you were warm enough? I was just a little concerned given your more cold-blooded tendencies…are you sure you don’t need a scarf or something?”

“A scarf?”

“Or something.”

“Why would I wear a scarf if I’m wearing a turtleneck?”

“To stay warm?”

“Yes, but then you wouldn’t see the turtleneck under the scarf so what would be the point of wearing one?”

“To…stay warm?” Aziraphale repeated, a little hopelessly.

“No, angel. Would ruin the look.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, freeze to death then, see if I care.”

That earned an amused chuckle from the demon.

The two were on their way to lunch, in theory, but had taken a detour when Aziraphale thought he saw a rare book in a thrift store’s window, being used to hold up a rather hideous table leg, no less. Then Crowley stopped, for some reason, to look at a wrought iron basket with fake leaves in it that was hanging from the ceiling of a shop. Then they stopped at a small grocer to get Aziraphale a hot cocoa which Crowley said would spoil his lunch and he insisted it would do nothing of the sort.

While they stood in the checkout, a small TV in the corner behind the counter played a rerun of a show that Aziraphale was fairly certain was called…Red Golf. Although now that he was seeing some of it that couldn’t possibly be the title because there didn’t seem to be any golf involved at all and they were also maybe in space? He watched a sharply dressed man spin and move in odd ways and hiss quite often and he tried not to look at Crowley. And there was a floating head on a screen. That one’s name was Holly, he’d gathered that much.

Good god, how long was this line going to take? He was beginning to think the cocoa wouldn’t be worth the torture.

Crowley inhaled sharply beside him, standing up straight.

“Crowley?”

“ _Shit_. Shit shit shit, where, _where?_ ”

“Crowley, what’s wrong?”

The demon looked around frantically until he spotted the TV behind the counter, “There.” He turned to Aziraphale, grabbing him by the arm and nearly dragging him into an aisle.

“Ow! Crowley, what’re you—“

“Ssshut up!”

The demon practically flung the angel away from him, pointing a finger at him, “Don’t move and don’t talk.”

“I—“

“Ssshut it, angel, I swear to—just shut it!”

With that he walked off.

Aziraphale looked down at the hot cocoa splashed across the floor, on his shoes, and pant leg. He rubbed absently at his arm. It actually hurt. Crowley had hurt him and he couldn’t fathom why and he wanted to be angry but instead he just felt oddly betrayed. Crowley had only ever put his hand on him once before, during the war, and it had been so gentle and careful. Nothing like what had just happened. He took a deep breath, miracling his clothes clean, that simply would not do. He deserved an explana—

“Hello, Crowley.”

Aziraphale froze. Crowley snapped his fingers and the other person in the aisle, who had been doing a fine job of pretending not to see what happened, froze in a very literal sense. The demon stopped time again.

“Dagon,” he heard Crowley say. “What do you want that couldn’t wait until I was in a less public place?”

Aziraphale swallowed, shrinking further into the aisle. Suddenly Crowley’s rough and urgent handling of him made a lot more sense. If another demon popped in and saw the two of them just casually standing in line at the grocer, he shuddered to think about it.

“What’s that matter?”

“You can’t just pop into the middle of a tv show in a room full of—nevermind, forget it, what do you _want?_ ”

“Assignment for you.”

Crowley groaned, “I’m busy.”

It was surprising to hear Crowley talk back so flippantly, like he hadn’t a care in the world when the ache in Aziraphale’s arm told him otherwise.

“Yes, you are, busy doing this assignment. Here are the instructions, get to it.”

Then it was quiet. Aziraphale heard Crowley make a sort of grunt, like he was in pain and without thinking the angel hurried out to him. The two crashed into one another at the end of the aisle.

“Angel!” Crowley had one hand on the side of his head, the other steadying himself on Aziraphale’s shoulder, “What part of stay put didn’t you—“

“You sounded hurt.”

“I’m fine. It’s just, how they go about giving instructions, just, zap it straight into your brain, doesn’t feel good at all.”

“Doing all of this,” Aziraphale gestured around the shop full of still frozen people, “can’t be helping.”

“Oh, right,” Crowley snapped his fingers and life resumed around them. “Sorry, 'bout earlier. I panicked. I couldn’t risk them seeing you.”

“I understand.”

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s arm, “Are you alright? You must know I wouldn't…I'd never…”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale said. Then he took a deep breath and put his hand over Crowley’s. “And I know.” The two stood that way, the shop moving around them. Aziraphale wished he wasn’t wearing gloves, so he could feel the demon’s hand beneath his. He wanted to reach up and take off his glasses. He didn’t care if others saw, he loved Crowley’s eyes. But he knew the demon was self-conscious about them and he didn’t think he quite had the nerve, besides. So instead he said,

“What’s the assignment?”

Crowley took a step back, “Right. Uh. Tempting some teen into disobeying their parents. They’re down at a diner contemplating running away or something, I don’t really know. Either way we’re going to have to reschedule our lunch, at the very least it’ll be a late dinner.”

“What if I came with you?”

“To my temptation?”

“Yes! I’ve never seen you do it, I’d love to see how you go about it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“It’s in America.”

Azirpahale faltered.

“Ha! See? I’ll come to the bookshop—“

“No, no. It’s fine. You said it was at a restaurant, right?”

“I said a _diner_ , angel. For you those are two distinctly different things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17 chapters in and we get our first legit cliffhanger lol rip


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: In this chapter Crowley meets and talks with a young woman that has been kicked out of her home for being gay. We don't see any of the actual conversations or altercations she may have had with her family, nor is it discussed in depth. I know it's a little spoilery but everyone's mental/emotional health is more important to me <3\. (Plus quite a few things happen in this chapter that you may not be expecting so not all is lost!)

-Somewhere in America, 1994-

Crowley settled into the booth sitting opposite Aziraphale. A couple booths down sat a nervous 19-year-old. She had a duffel bag on the table, closer to the window, and a backpack resting against her side. She had one arm resting over it, protective, like it was all she had in the world.

Because it was.

Her name was Alanna. He didn’t remember her last name. It wasn’t important, anyway.

Aziraphale looked over the menu for the hundredth time, as though what it had to offer might change. “So,” he asked, keeping his voice low, “how do you normally go about this?”

“I just talk to them.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all that’s needed.”

He set the menu down, thoughtful.

“Actually, angel, you might be able to help me.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Crowley didn’t want to give away too much of what he knew, in case someone overheard. “I just need to make sure she feels comfortable talking to me, a stranger.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said. “But how can I help with that?”

He looked at the angel’s face, so eager, ready to take part in some mischief. He tried hard not to think of before. There was no before, he reminded himself, only now.

“Just,” he started, a little hesitant, “she might feel comfortable opening up if she thinks that we’re…” he let the rest of the sentence hang in the air, unsure how finish it. No, he knew how to finish it, he couldn’t bring himself to.

Aziraphale continued to stare at him with those wide, ridiculously bright eyes of his.

Why were his lashes so bloody long?

“Oh!” he said, when things seemed to click. And then, a little quieter, “Oh. You want…me to ah, pretend to be…” he swallowed, “…you?”

Crowley’s brain tried to fill in all the possibilities that Aziraphale could have been thinking.

Pretend to be…  


…seeing  
…dating  
…in love with  
…shagging  
…tolerant of  
…remotely interested in

Him?

“I mean,” Crowley said, “if you can manage.”

“I-I think I can give it a try.”

“You’ll be helping me perform a temptation you know.”

“Oh psh,” the angel said as he sat back, picking up the menu once more, “wouldn’t be the first time as we both well know. Now, let’s order something from this, ahem, delightful menu. Anything strike your fancy?”

Crowley sat back as well, “I’m not hungry, you know that.”  
  
“Oh come on! When are we going to be in America again? In…” he paused, “what state is this?”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I don’t pay attention when you drive, dear, you know that. I focus on not dying.”  
  
Crowley made a face as they obviously didn’t drive anywhere and had simply miracled themselves there. Then he realized it was part of Aziraphale’s act. And then his entire chest seemed to collapse at hearing Aziraphale say “dear”. No ‘my’ this time. Just….dear. He knew it was the angel just doing what he asked. Pretending they were…something more than they really were, but to hear it, to _really_ hear it and not just imagine it, not fabricate some bastardization of what was said then and what could be said now, to really hear it, he was suddenly pointedly aware of the useless human heart that came with this form because it was very much lodged in his throat.  
  
“Oh, what’s a uhm, a ‘meatloaf sandwich’?”  
  
“You won’t like it. Just get something you know you’ll like, get some waffles or something. Some pie, they’ve tons of pie.”  
  
Aziraphale pouted, “I want to try something new.”  
  
“Yes, but I’m the one that has to listen to you complain about it the whole way home.” As soon as the word left his mouth he froze. Aziraphale stared at him with those wide eyes of his. Crowley meant to say “bookshop”. He’d been thinking of the bookshop. He’d been picturing himself laying on the couch, doing his best to ignore Aziraphale, who would be slouched in his armchair, looking pitiful.  
  
He swallowed, “So just, just get something you’re likely to enjoy. For my sake.”  
  
Aziraphale looked back down at his menu. There was no denying the pink in his cheeks.  
  
Crowley looked away, sneaking a glance at the woman two booths down. She was gazing at the back of Aziraphale’s head, smiling to herself. When she realized Crowley was looking she looked down at her plate of barely touched eggs.  
  
“I think we’re good,” Crowley whispered.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Crowley pushed to his feet. “Oy,” he said to someone clearing dishes behind the counter, “bathroom?”  
  
They jerked their head toward the back, past Alanna. Perfect. Crowley took only a few sauntering steps before Aziraphale called out after him.  
  
“Crowley, dear!”  
  
He nearly tripped. “Yes?” he asked, doing his best not to hiss.  
  
“Will you at least have a cup of tea? Or coffee?”  
  
“Yes, angel, fine.”  
  
Aziraphale gave a small smile, a little satisfied wiggle, and while Crowley watched, caught the eye of the teen and gave her a small wink before turning back to his menu with another wiggle.  
  
Crowley wanted to strangle his angel but when he turned around to continue stalking to the bathroom he saw young Alanna, grinning from ear to ear. She looked happy and, he knew from his own experience, a little wistful.  
  
In the bathroom he stood in front of the mirror. He slid his glasses up, letting them rest on the top of his head, and stared hard at his reflection. He didn’t have much choice, snakes didn’t do a lot of blinking. He stuck out his tongue. It was human looking enough when he concentrated, otherwise… While he watched, his tongue forked and grew several inches with a quiet hiss. He’d tried miracling his eyes to something different once. He couldn’t do it. Lost his vision for a few days for his effort, a headache for months to follow.  
  
Aziraphale really gave it a shot. And if Crowley was kind to himself he would admit that it didn’t feel like the angel had to pretend very hard. And it didn’t feel wrong or incomplete or even very different from how they normally were but in the best way. It felt right and open and free.  
  
But Crowley wasn’t kind to himself. And as he stared at his reflection he found he doubted the angel would ever actually love a demon, much less one with eyes like those and a freakish tongue and horrid wings. Not to mention his feet. The patches of scales that appeared on his shoulders when he was stressed…or it was cold out…or his body was just being a general shit.  
  
He slid his glasses back down and turned away.  
  
Crowley liked to think whenever he walked away from a mirror his reflection was still staring back at the space where he’d been. Like he left it behind. Left behind everything he hated.  
  
Except the next time he looked in the mirror there it all was again.  
  
He pushed open the bathroom door and snapped his fingers. Suddenly the woman’s wallet disappeared from wherever it had been tucked away and found itself on the floor just beside her booth.  
  
Crowley picked it up, “Is this yours?”  
  
She jumped and looked from his face down to his hand. “Oh my god, yes. How did you—“ she started patting down her backpack.  
  
“It was on the floor, right there.”  
  
She took it with a sigh. “Thank you. Just what I need. Lose my wallet on top of everything else. I can’t fucking do anything right.” When Crowley didn’t respond she looked up, “Sorry.”  
  
“That’s alright. Anything…you want to talk about?”  
  
“I don’t want to bother you…”  
  
“Please do. If you don’t my partner’s going to make me try his food and I _really_ don’t want to do that.”  
  
She looked over to where Aziraphale sat and smiled. Then, in a quiet voice, “I think I might be running away from home.”  
  
“Ooh,” he said, his tone a perfect mix of surprise, intrigue, and concern. “That’s…” he gestured to the seat opposite her. “May I?”  
  
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”  
  
Crowley sat down, but only on the edge, towards the end. As though he were ready to get up at any moment. He didn’t pretend to look comfortable or sprawl in his usual way. This booth was this woman’s little island of refuge right now. He wasn’t about claim it as his.  
  
He pointed to the bags, “Might be?”  
  
“Well. Yeah. I don’t know. I,” she sighed, “I feel like I can tell you this and you’ll get it…”  
  
“Okay,” he said, inviting.  
  
“I told my parents I’m gay and they kicked me out.”  
  
A muscle in Crowley’s jaw twitched. He knew this was the case, he’d been given just enough facts to get going. But knowing it and seeing her say it with tears in her eyes were two different things. She was waiting for him to say something cruel, he could see it. She was waiting to find out she’d completely misread his interactions with Aziraphale.  
  
He said simply, “I’m sorry.”  
  
She nodded, sniffed. “I guess I just…I don’t know what they thought would happen? They’d kick me out and I’d step out into the cold hard world and I’d be like, oh, haha, nope just playin’ I’m not really gay. I’m not really in love with my closest friend and she’s not at all in love with me. Not at all. Like, what? I thought that was the goal, y’know? Your, your significant other is supposed to be your best friend and I’m lucky enough for it to happen but because she’s got _fucking tits_ suddenly it’s a big deal.” She seemed to realize she was getting progressively louder and louder. “Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be,” Crowley said. “You’re right. I do think you’re incredibly fortunate that it’s your best friend.”  
  
“Right? We know everything about each other. Well not, probably not everything, but we know what matters y’know? And we’re ready to discover the rest together but apparently in addition to I guess ruining my life by choosing to be gay, their words, not mine, I’m also too young to know what, or who, I want.”  
  
“I promise you,” Crowley said, “more years on this Earth does not make anyone smarter or more aware or have more answers. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.”  
  
She let out a heavy sigh.  
  
“Do you have somewhere to go?”  
  
“Yeah…um, my girlfriend’s. Her parents are more open and they said I could stay there until I’m able to get on my feet. They’re also camp Too-Young-To-Know though so they don’t want us getting a place together or anything, but they’re willing to help me get situated, which is better than nothing I guess.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
She groaned.  
  
“So what’s holding you back?”  
  
“I…I don’t want to hurt my parents. Which is so, so stupid, I know. But I know they think kicking me out is some great scare tactic. And that I won’t actually _go_. And if I do, it’ll crush my mom and-and what if they don’t speak to me again? What if in doing this, that’s it? I’ve ruined it all?”  
  
“That’s definitely a possibility, I won’t lie to you.”  
  
“What do you think I should do?”  
  
“Oh no, I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m here to make sure you know what _all_ of your options are.”  
  
“Okaaay,” she said. “What would you do if you were me?”  
  
“I _have_ been you.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Mhm,” he said with a nod. “Disappointed the literal hell out of my parent.”  
  
“And…what happened?”  
  
“Haven’t spoken to them in oohh, 6000 years?”  
  
She let out a nervous chuckle.  
  
“It hurts. I know. It hurts when they kick you out. They’re supposed to take care of you, look after you, aren’t they? Not supposed to give you a shove and watch you…fall.”  
  
She pushed her eggs around, “Yeah…”  
  
“Here’s the thing, darling. There’s going to be consequences no matter what you choose. Making these kind of choices isn’t just about what you want now, it’s also about what you can handle later. And will it be worth it.”  
  
“Was it worth it for you?”  
  
“I didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t given a chance to explain. One moment I…made the wrong decisions and the next I…I’m in Hell.” Crowley picked at the chipped black polish on his nails. “But yeah, sometimes it hurts and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. Sometimes I don’t want to fix it and I don’t care and give them the bird and move on with my day. It varies. But…I’m learning to make the best of it.”  
  
“Still?” she asked.  
  
Crowley looked up, “Is that a jab at my age?”  
  
She laughed, “Sorry, I didn’t mean, sorry.”  
  
“Eh,” he said with a smirk. “Yes. Still. Still and always. Some betrayals run very deep. It may be different for you. You may never look back. And your life may be richer for it.”  
  
She nodded. She stared hard at her eggs, deep in thought. Crowley knew this was the moment he was supposed to goad her into leaving. Into calling her parents and telling them to fuck off. To run away. And he knew what would happen if she made that choice.  
  
But he wanted it to be _her_ choice.  
  
“I should go,” he said. “Get back to my—“  
  
“Angel?” she asked. “Sorry, I overheard you calling him that. Is that his name or…?”  
  
“No,” Crowley said with a smile, “it’s just what he is.”  
  
The woman smiled back, “Thank you for listening. You’ve done so much more for me in these fifteen minutes than my parents ever have. Do you…have your own kids?”  
  
“Noooo,” he said, pushing to his feet. “I think in the long run I’d be a terrible influence.”  
  
“Oh, I didn’t get your name!”  
  
Crowley put his hands in his pockets. “Anthony,” he said. “I’m Anthony.” He’d told humans his name before. Had gotten a bit of a reputation for himself in the ‘30s. But for some reason, in that moment, in the greasy, dimly lit diner with this human, he felt he’d claimed something for himself just then.  
  
“Thank you, Anthony,” she said.  
  
Crowley gave her a small wave and returned to Aziraphale. He slid back into his seat to see the angel sitting back, hands in his lap, a worried look on his face. His food sat untouched. He’d gone with pie. Apple from the looks of it.  
  
“S’matter, angel?”  
  
He didn’t look up. He only twisted his lips into a deeper pout, his brow pinched.  
  
“Oy,” and without thinking, Crowley leaned over and gently pressed his thumb to the crease in the angel’s brow, smoothing it up.  
  
Aziraphale startled and Crowley jerked his hand back.  
  
“I…” the angel started. He sighed, “I heard what you…are you alright?”  
  
Crowley sat back, throwing one arm over the back of his seat, “Course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“Yes. Right.”  
  
The demon drummed his fingers along the table top. He wanted to get out of the diner. His head hurt from stopping time, getting the assignment, _doing_ the assignment, everything that was somehow both happening and _not_ happening between him and Aziraphale…he just wanted to crawl into his bed, pull every blanket he owned, and perhaps miracle a few more for good measure, over his head and sleep for at least a week.  
  
“Suppose the farce is over now,” Aziraphale said quietly.  
  
“Well…” Crowley said. “I mean, she’s still here. Should probably…keep up appearances?” He hoped to Satan he didn’t sound as pathetically hopeful as he felt.  
  
Aziraphale perked up at that and his gaze landed on Crowley’s hand still on the table. Crowley could see him debating it. He wanted to lean over, teasing, an easy smile on his face and tell the angel to just do it. To reach over. To take his bloody hand. It wasn’t that hard. Please. He couldn’t do it himself. He couldn’t. He didn’t feel he was allowed to. How could he when he had no idea what constituted too much? What would be too fast?  
  
But he didn’t do any of that. Instead he just sat there, looking casually off at nothing at all. Watching the angel deliberate, watching him actually almost reach out twice before pulling his hand back. While he dithered about the young Alanna came toward them, backpack on, juggling her duffle bag.  
  
“Bye Anthony,” she said. “Thanks again.” She turned to Aziraphale as she headed out, “Bye Mr…Anthony? I don’t know.” She laughed, embarrassed, but happy, and left.  
  
Aziraphale watched her through the window, “What do you think she chose?”  
  
“She chose to leave. Another notch in my belt. Blackened feather in my wing.”  
  
“You don’t sound happy about it.”  
  
“It’s not going to be easy for her. She’ll be happy, by the end of it all, but it’s going to be very, very hard and she’s going to regret it for a long time.”  
  
“Oh, dear.”  
  
What Crowley didn’t say was that she would often think back to the two odd British men she met in a diner and wonder if they were real. If she’d imagined them. And their happiness. And that sometimes the image of what they had was all that kept her going.  
  
Aziraphale looked down at his pie, “And…she and her friend? Do they stay together?”  
  
“It’s rocky, they split apart for a while. But yeah, in the end it’s them once again.”  
  
The angel smiled down at his food.  
  
“Can I…ask you a question, Crowley?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“I. Uhm. Well, I just, you.” He took a deep, quivering breath and cleared his throat, putting his hands flat on the table top as though it would grant him some sort of stability.  
  
Crowley tried not to notice how close their hands were now.  
  
“I just wanted to know if…well. Well is ‘MacArthur’ the name of the park or is ‘MacArthur’s Park’ the name of the cake? Because honestly the lyrics really aren’t very clear on that at all.”  
  
Crowley stared.  
  
Aziraphale stared back, clearly nervous, cheeks pink.  
  
Crowley’s mind was attempting to process a lot of different things at once. The complete shift in topic. The actual words that were said as Aziraphale had fairly rushed through it all in about half a breath. The color to the angel’s cheeks. The fact that he had, at some point in the last 15 or so years, made the time to sit and listen to the bloody song. Had he understood it? Had he understood what Crowley saw in it? Did he see it too?  
  
Did he feel it too?  
  
All of those crashed around in his head for what felt like eons, the longest five seconds of his considerably long life, to come out as a breathless little laugh. “Honestly, angel,” he said, “I’ve no idea.”  
  
Aziraphale lips quirked into that tiny smile of his, his gaze shifting to his hand. Or Crowley’s. They were so close. So damn close.  
  
The demon felt like he couldn’t breathe which was ridiculous because he didn’t need air. Didn’t need lungs. But he had them and they were failing him as his mind screamed to just do it and his heart railed against his ribs at the fear of what could happen if he did until finally he clenched his teeth, held his unnecessary breath, and shifted his hand ever so slightly, a fraction of millimeter, so that his pinky gently whispered beside Aziraphale’s, the metal of his signet ring cool against Crowley’s skin.  
  
The angel gave a quick, sharp inhale and it took everything in Crowley not to pull away in panic at the sound. Aziraphale didn’t move his hand. At least, not away. Instead, he very carefully settled his pinky over Crowley’s, gently curling around it.  
  
The demon went from not being able to breathe to not wanting to because if he took a deep breath he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop, he’d just hyperventilate until he discorporated. This was, there was no way, _no way_ to misinterpret this. There wasn’t. He couldn’t. His mind wandered and jumped and cartwheeled, trying to come up with every possible explanation except the one he wanted, the one he needed.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Ngk?”  
  
“Your coffee is going to get cold.”  
  
“Yeah. Right. ‘Course.” He reached over with his other hand and took a sip.  
  
A sip he immediately gagged on.  
  
“Oh my Go-Sa-for fuck’s sake, that’s disgusting!” He looked at Aziraphale, “Why? Why do I ever trust you with this?”  
  
Aziraphale could barely contain his grin. “My dear I did ask you what you wanted, it’s hardly my fault.”  
  
Crowley scoffed and with a snap of his fingers changed the contents of his coffee cup. He had to set the mug down to do it, and then pick it back up to drink it, because there was nothing short of the apocalypse that was going to get him to move his hand from Aziraphale’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> I really made y'all suffer through 30,000 words of slow burn for...pinkies touching.  
> I'm not even sorry.  
> 


	19. Chapter 19

-The Bookshop, New Year’s Eve, 1999 – 

Aziraphale sat comfortably on Crowley’s couch, a book in one hand, a small coffee cup in the other. He liked sitting on the couch when the demon wasn’t around, it smelled faintly of him. There was, of course, whatever product he used in his hair or perfume or cologne he decided to wear at any given point in time, yes, (the demon was a little fastidious about it, to hide any remote hint of his Hellish origins the angel assumed) but there was just a hint of brimstone underneath it all as well. Aziraphale thought, on Crowley at least, it smelled a bit of smoke, but not unpleasant smoke. Blown out birthday candle smoke, perhaps. And it tasted, because it did have a bit of a taste to it, well for some unfathomable reason it made Aziraphale think of exposed brick, warm with the sun, and creeping vines.  
  
He was sitting there, smiling to himself, having completely forgotten about the book in one hand and the coffee cup in the other, when the shop door slammed open.  
  
“We’re _closed_ ,” he called out.  
  
“Angel! It’s me, where, are you, where—“ Crowley stumbled into their little alcove, “There you are!”  
  
Aziraphale set his items down, scooting to the edge of the couch, “Are you drunk?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” the demon said emphatically, despite his slight sway. “I’m extra-tipsy.”  
  
“That’s not a thing, my dear.”  
  
“Yes it is. It’s-it’s the point right before drunk but after tipsy. When things both still feel good _and_ make sense.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Listen, look, here,” with a snap he miracled two bottles of wine onto Aziraphale’s desk. “You get to catching up and I’ll be back in a bit, got a few final touches and then, then it’ll be all, I’ll be back.”  
  
“Back?”  
  
“Yes! It’s New Year’s, angel! New millennia!”  
  
“No, I know that it’s just…well we’ve never spent a New Year’s Eve…together.”  
  
Crowley stopped at that, “Haven’t we?”  
  
“No. No we’ve always each been caught up with work. Either I was off doing something or you were.”  
  
“For _six millennia_?”  
  
“Well, there were a few times when we were ah,” he hesitated, “radio silent?”  
  
“Right, right,” Crowley said, thankfully choosing not the point out that whenever they stopped talking it was because Aziraphale had been the one to push him away. “Huh. Do you…not want me here then? I mean if you’ve got a routine set or—“  
  
“No! No I want nothing more.”  
  
Crowley smirked at that, “Excellent. Well, better get started on that wine. I’ll be back soon!”  
  
Aziraphale watched the demon saunter out.  
  
New Year’s Eve together. That was new. Bringing in a new millennia too. People were always so focused on what new years brought. New promises, new goals, new hopes. All over the world there were different traditions. Although his mind seemed to be rather stuck on one.  
  
The idea of a kiss at midnight.  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat and glanced around, as though the books could read his thoughts. He was definitely going to get started on that wine. He got up off the couch and as he did, he felt a sharp pain in his back. He winced with it but also knew what it meant. Sure enough, he looked down at the cushions and a few of his feathers were sitting there.  
  
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” he said, scooping them up.  
  
There were many boxes around the bookshop. Some standard cardboard, some the more sturdy type with a lid for filing papers and documents. Some held books that were out of rotation, waiting their turn back on the shelves. Some held actual invoices that Aziraphale never looked at past the first time to ensure everything on the list was actually delivered. A few held newspapers from choice years, important headlines. Some may have even held other, smaller boxes? Aziraphale hardly touched them except to put things in and then promptly forget about them. They all blended one into the other and were as much a part of the background of the shop as the carpet or light fixtures. Which was why it was an unassuming box, one the angel knew never in a million years would Crowley ever notice, that he slid out from under his desk, lifted the lid, and placed his fallen feathers on top of a growing pile inside.  
  
“Hmm,” he said. The angel had a few theories on what was causing his collection to grow. Well, one theory. But he actively chose not to entertain it. Besides, he didn’t have nearly enough information that could really support the hypothesis anyway. So really the only thing to do was put the lid back on, slide the box back under the desk, grab a bottle of wine and try very hard not to think about midnight kisses.  
  
When the bell over the shop door rings again, it’s sometime around 10pm and Aziraphale is quite drunk.  
  
“Angel!” the demon called out.  
  
“Crowley!” the angel responded without getting up off the couch.  
  
“Angel!”  
  
“Crowleeey.”  
  
The demon poked his head into their little alcove, “Hello, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale sank further into the couch, clutching his wine glass. For some reason he could feel a mad giggle bubbling up at the sight of the demon and it was taking everything in his power to keep it in. “Hello, demon.”  
  
“You’re drunk.”  
  
“I am _not_. I’m…what was it you said earlier? Superiorly in-inebriated?”  
  
“That’s not even close. I don’t-how did you-that’s _more_ syllala-sylla-,” he cleared his throat, “more word beats.”  
  
“Word beats,” Aziraphale repeated, bits of the giggle escaping.  
  
“It’s a thing,” Crowley insisted, making his way to the desk where half a bottle of wine still sat. His walk was more stumble than saunter. “Oh Aziraphale, what till you hear what I’ve done this time. I’ve really, really outdone myself.”  
  
With some concentrated effort, Aziraphale sat up a bit and took another sip of his wine. “Is it better than the M25? That’s your crowning achievement, isn’t it?”  
  
“Naaah, not better than—well… _Well_.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Crowley took a thoughtful sip from the bottle. “Yes,” he said, “but if only cause it’s on a grander scale.”  
  
“The M25 on a grander scale? Oh, Crowley, did-did you just bring Hell to Earth then?”  
  
The demon chuckled, “Ok. Alright. Listen. Angel. Get a load of this. So. Computers.”  
  
Aziraphale let out a slight groan and scooted to the edge of his seat, trying to give Crowley his full attention. Which translated into staring wide-eyed at the demon even as he awkwardly mouthed at the glass in his hand.  
  
“You know? You know _computers_.”  
  
“I’m aware of their existence on this plane, yes.”  
  
“Wh—bookshop!”  
  
“This plane of _existence_ ,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“Their existence on this plane of existence? You can’t, you can’t use that word twice in the sentence like that.”  
  
“Technically I didn’t.”  
  
Crowley visibly thought back.  
  
“What about computers?” Aziraphale asked.  
  
“Right. Uh. Let’s see.” He slid off his glasses and tossed them onto the desk. “How do I…in terms you’ll, you’ll understand? Cause I don’t fully get it either but, here, I’ll try. Computers. Have a language, yes?”  
  
Aziraphale nodded sagely but hadn’t heard much after Crowley took off his glasses and processed even less when the demon’s eyes met his.  
  
“And it consists of just, two, two let—two numbers.”  
  
His steady nod up and down slowly shifted into a shake of his head.  
  
“Yes, yes, no it does. It _does_.” Crowley paced a little, those legs of his unable to stand still. “It’s just one and-and zero over and over and over and that’s it. Right? Yes.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes. Anyway.” He took several large gulps from the bottle. “When they were made, and this language was created, they-they only know of the year 1900 and forward, yes?”  
  
“I suppose…”  
  
“Yes. So. When it hits 2000, they won’t know what to do.”  
  
“The numbers?”  
  
“The computers. Well yes, I suppose that too. They’ll think it’s the year 1900 and systems will crash and banks will, I don’t know, also crash, whatever. All sorts of information will be lost and it’ll be digital chaos.”  
  
“Oh, dear.” That _did_ sound worse than the M25. Mostly because it might somehow actually effect Aziraphale. He knew his suppliers were transitioning to digital records and the like.  
  
“Yeeessss,” said Crowley. “And the public is terrified. They’re avoiding airports and hospitals and all sorts of—“  
  
“And this is your doing?”  
  
“Noooo.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Well, yes.”  
  
“Crowley!”  
  
“Only a little! Look, I didn’t come up with a bloody two number language ok? Who does that? Humans do that. No, I, what I did, was I maybe insinuated that,” he took a breath, stumbling back and forth, “all things would come to a fire-y end when the clock struck midnight and all those zeroes lined up.”  
  
“Oh no.”  
  
“Well, no, listen,” Crowley steadied himself on the arm of the couch. Aziraphale was beginning to think he might actually drop that bottle and he did not have it in him to miracle wine out of his carpet. The demon pushed upright with a sway, “Angel, listen—“  
  
“Crowley will you just,” Aziraphale reached over and took the demon by the arm, “sit down!” He pulled the demon over, intending to guide him to the couch, to the empty space beside him. Instead Crowley stumbled sideways and with an indignant “Alright!” sat squarely on Aziraphale’s lap.  
  
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, one hand holding his glass, the other still on Crowley’s arm, “that’s not what I—“  
  
“Angel!” Crowley said as he set the bottle of wine down. He shifted in his lap, somehow bending one leg up and in and over so he sat fully facing him. “That’s the best part!” He said with flourish, leaning back and nearly toppling over.  
  
Without thinking Aziraphale dropped his glass to the floor and grabbed Crowley by the waist with both hands, “Steady on!”  
  
Crowley leaned forward, taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands, “Oh angel, my angel, that’s the best part.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah…it’s…”  
  
Aziraphale watched Crowley’s amber eyes flick down to his lips before meeting his gaze once more. His fingertips played gently at the angel’s curls. Aziraphale wasn’t sure which one of them was leaning in, perhaps both, but he was close enough that when he breathed in it was Crowley’s breath he inhaled.  
  
He could taste the wine on it.  
  
He wanted to taste the wine on his lips.  
  
His hands on Crowley’s waist tightened, just a bit, he didn’t think the demon would notice but the way his breath hitched said otherwise.  
  
It wouldn’t take much to close the distance between them. He could lean in. He could pull Crowley in. Both. Neither. He could just flick out his tongue and catch the demon’s lips and he knew that would be just brazen enough to completely disarm him and while the demon was flustered he would kiss him, _really_ kiss him. That scenario and many others played out in his mind more and more often in the last few years.  
  
But, his mind supplied a little wildly, it’s not midnight.  
  
And Aziraphale let out a quiet laugh.  
  
“What?” Crowley murmured, his gaze back on the angel’s mouth.  
  
“You’re very drunk,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“So are you,” said Crowley.  
  
Yes, yes he was. And he didn’t want this moment to happen while they were both nearly blind drunk. He wanted Crowley clear-headed and aware and without a doubt invested. He didn’t want it to be something either of them could blame on the alcohol when they were sober and embarrassed. He wanted his touch to be the reason Crowley’s cheeks were flushed and he was unable to form coherent sentences.  
  
Aziraphale took a deep breath and with a bit of a groan buried his face in Crowley’s shoulder. He thought the demon would get annoyed but instead he sort of curled around him, so fluid for someone that seemed to be nothing but angles, and he held him.  
  
They stayed like that until Aziraphale finally said into Crowley’s shoulder, “What’s the best part?”  
  
Crowley shook slightly with a dry laugh, “That nothing is going to happen.”  
  
Aziraphale sat back and looked at him, “What?”  
  
“Nothing at all!” Crowley said, practically flinging himself sideways, off of Aziraphale’s lap, and onto the couch.  
  
The angel hadn’t realized how warm and comforting the demon’s presence was until it was gone. He grabbed the bottle and his glass, miracling away the stain from the carpet as he poured himself some more wine.  
  
Crowley wriggled around until he was flat on his back, although one leg still lay draped across Aziraphale’s.  
  
“Nothing?” Aziraphale managed.  
  
“Yeah, no, some clever computer engineers and-and programmers and what have you are going to figure out how to fix it and everyone would have panicked for no reason at all.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
He could feel Crowley trying to get them back to their usual state of drunken banter and discussion, back to an atmosphere that wasn’t quite so thick with want and fear. And Aziraphale was trying to let it happen, he really was. He emptied his glass quickly and poured another and, when Crowley held out his hand, fingers wiggling, he passed the bottle to him. Crowley lifted his head long enough to take several long, long gulps before flopping back down again.  
  
It occurred to Aziraphale that the bottle should have been empty but it never seemed to go any less than half.  
  
“It’s ridiculoussss,” Crowley slurred after a while.  
  
“What is?” He asked it conversationally, settling back into the couch. He resisted the urge to put his hand on Crowley’s leg and upset their delicate balance of pretending nothing was happening between them even when they were so, so close to making it a reality. If the angel was just a little less intoxicated he may have reached the conclusion that actually sitting down and having a conversation about it instead of pretending there wasn’t an ‘it’ may have been a better course of action.  
  
“Months and months of anxiety and panic bubbling and boiling and trickling into every little thing they do,” Crowley said, “and ugh, it’s a work of bloody genius and-and they don’t appreciate it downstairs, not at all!”  
  
“Oh? I thought you were getting constant comememendations.”  
  
“Yeah but they don’t, they don’t get the-the _nuance_ of it. They’re so stuck on going one by one by one by—picking them off ever so bloody slowly. And it’s stupid. It’s so, just, stupid. They don’t even realize when what they’re doing is-is better, is a better, not actually evil outcome! Like with the uh, the-the, a couple years ago, the diner? She’s happy by the end of it! But oh ho, we convinced her to disobey her parents, solid demonic activity there! May as well just stick to gluing money to the middle of the street!”  
  
Aziraphale nodded, content to let the demon rant and ramble.  
  
“And it’s just, y’know, I am good. I am bloody good at my job, angel. I really am. Yeah, alright, fine it’s not, it’s not quite as majestic as building solar systems but, but there’s still a level of finesse that I am _good_ at. They’re just not forward thinking enough y’know and I-I-I here they have, I mean, a bloody fallen archangel doing their stupid work for stupid,” his voice lowered, “stupid Satan and they don’t even—“  
  
Aziraphale jerked up right, and his head swam with the movement. “What did you just say?”  
  
“What? I-I said Satan is stupid but I whispered it in case she—“  
  
“No no no not that! You said, you said you’re a fallen _arch_ angel!”  
  
Crowley pushed up onto his elbows, his face twisted as he thought back, “Did I?”  
  
“You _just_ said it!”  
  
“Well, but, that doesn’t sound right. No, no that can’t be.”  
  
“Crowley, if you were an archangel that would explain _a lot_.” Why he still had his wings. His ability to stop time. Why his mind seemed to trip and tumble from one place to another, unable to keep in place the pieces of demon that he’d become and the bits of angel, of _archangel_ , that were still floating around.  
  
“No but I can’t be. That can’t be right. Listen, no, listen,” he swung his legs over, struggling to stand upright, “there’s three, three solid reasons why that’s so very wrong. For the first thing, alright, the first thing, is that, archangels don’t fall do they? They can’t. That’s ridiculous. They’re the-the most angeliest angels there are. I mean look at Michael and Gabriel and Uriel and-and, those other two. Archangels don’t just, y’know, switch sides or-or ask questions and I asked a lot of questions angel, so many questions, alright?”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Which brings me to point number two, which probably should’ve point one, there’s five archangels, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged, “Yeah.”  
  
“Always have been, always will be. Y’know, so there’s that. For as long as we can remem—“ Crowley stopped short. Aziraphale watched as a bit of panic seemed to cross his features.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
The demon’s eyes were wide as he stared at Aziraphale, although the angel felt certain he was looking right through him. He looked like he was going to be sick. Aziraphale had never seen the demon look physically ill before. It was disconcerting and worrying and a little scary. What could be bothering him that much?  
  
“Crowley? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “There’s five. There’s…there’s always been five.”  
  
“No, you’re right. I don’t know why I…seemed to forget that for a moment there.”  
  
Crowley lifted the bottle and drank and drank and drank and this time it did empty.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“There’s a thir-a thir-uh, number, number c is, well,” he started to laugh. “Could you just imagine me as an, me, as an arch-bloody-angel?” Crowley tipped his head back and laughed.  
  
And there it was.  
  
That smile Aziraphale had been hoping to catch even a glimpse of.  
  
The demon laughed and laughed and genuine joy just spilled off of him. But there was something else, something Aziraphale could just barely see the edges of. Shimmers in his peripheral vision even though he was staring right at the demon. He felt like the room was spinning, like the floor was suddenly liquid. He could see it, if he squinted, if he focused, if he held his breath, there, right _there_.  
  
Stood an angel.  
  
An angel with long, beautiful red hair, the ends dipped, not intentionally, in night sky and stardust. His fingertips seemed permanently stained with the colors of sunsets and nebulas, bits of it on his clothes, in his wings, like a painter so lost in thought they accidently put the wet end of the brush in their mouth. Golden freckles dotted his skin. His eyes were still that same shade of amber.  
  
But there was something off about that angel. Something incomplete. He was sad when, truly, there was no reason for him to have any understanding of the concept. His smiles came easy but his eyes took longer to light. He was kind and gentle and in desperate want of something more, something he couldn’t name.  
  
And with a shuddering twist, something in Aziraphale’s mind wrenched back into place like tectonic plates and it sent a resulting shockwave through him. The world spun unpleasantly, he thought he might be falling and reached out to steady himself on the arm of the couch. He shut his eyes against the awful vertigo and when he opened them again, there stood a demon grinning down at him.  
  
There was nothing off about this demon. His smiles were slow to come but when they did they were brilliant and his eyes hid nothing. He asked questions and answered them when asked and thought all the thoughts he wanted and chased after them with reckless curiosity. He was, although he would never admit it, kind and gentle and had spent six millienia figuring out what he wanted and how to get it. His wings, Aziraphale realized, were the palette he once worked from. The pitch black of space, the purples and blues of the night sky, stardust and starlight and the ever changing current of new ideas. The haughty swagger to his walk. The graceful tilt of his head.  
  
Oh god, he was perfect and Aziraphale thought he could be happy if he did nothing for the rest of his immortal life but help Crowley see just how wondrous he truly was.  
  
The thought sent a flare of pain across his shoulder blades.  
  
He ignored it.  
  
“Right,” Crowley said, as though barely a moment had passed, as though Aziraphale hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole that felt equal parts memory and an adventure in madness. “Now that’s settled, let’s, let’s go on the roof!”  
  
Aziraphale blinked, “What?”  
  
“Yeah! Th-the from the top of my building you can see just, oooh, just everything, angel. Let’s go watch these humans bring in the New Year and we’ll see if all the lights go out!”  
  
“I,” he winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was so very drunk and so very confused and so many things had happened that night already he hardly thought he could handle more than sitting quietly on the couch and thinking intentional thoughts of nothing at all. “I thought you said nothing was going to happen?”  
  
“I mean, _I_ didn’t arrange it so that anything would happen but if the last two thousand years have shown us anything at all, it’s-it’s that humans are really, really good at screwing themselves over, aren’t they?”  
  
“Yes, well,” he couldn’t really argue with that.  
  
“C’mon!” Crowley waved the now miraculously full bottle in front of him. “Let’s goooo, oh! Oh oh oh oh! You can meet, you can meet _Daisy_.”  
  
It was at that moment that Aziraphale wondered if he maybe had, for the first time in thousands of years, fallen asleep, and was in fact, for the first time in the history of any angel ever, having some sort of fever dream.  
  
“Daisy? Who the Hell is Daisy?” The only image his drunk mind could muster up was a cow. And he really didn’t think one would fit in a London flat.  
  
“My ficus!”  
  
“You have a ficus.”  
  
“Yes! Well techncially she's a ficus retusa and she's doing _wonderfully_.”  
  
“And you...named her ‘Daisy’?”  
  
“Yes, angel! Keep up! C’mon, let’s go.” Crowley stumbled his way toward the main area of the bookshop and Aziraphale finally got to his feet.  
  
“I-I don’t know if the roof is a good idea, Crowley.”  
  
The demon stopped, “Why not?”  
  
“You can barely stand up right, my dear! The last thing that, that either of us wants is you tumbling off the edge.”  
  
“Well I-I _won’t_. And I’m y’know, seventy—no that’s a bit high. Ehhh, forty….forty eight? No, no forty-two! I am forty-two percent sure that my wings still work.”  
  
“Oh good Lord.”  
  
“And besides, even if I _did_ fall I’m sure you’ll catch me. You always have. Now come on, last one there is…well, the last one there, I don’t know.”  
  
Aziraphale watched him stumble toward the front door. “Have I?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Come on, angel! The stars don’t wait for anyone, even me. Disobedient children that they are.”  
  
“Right,” Aziraphale said, grabbing his wine glass. “Of course.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to provide a quick CONTENT WARNING, this fic hinges on memory loss and memory alteration but I think the first chunk of this chapter focuses a little heavier on that (and on questioning your reality) than I have in previous chapters, so I wanted to give a heads up for anyone that might struggle with that. Love you all! <3

-St. James’ Park, 2004-

Crowley shifted on the park bench. The ducks kept floating by, ruffling their feathers and giving him dirty looks. He'd been sitting there for the better part of an hour and hadn't offered up a single piece of bread, much to their annoyance. On his leg rested a brown box. Just a bit bigger than his hand. Unassuming. And yet it felt like it was crushing his leg, everything about it, and what it represented, weighed him down.  
  
He tried to ignore it and in its place came thoughts he’d been spending the past five years ignoring.  
  
That conversation with Aziraphale on New Year’s.  
  
Every so often it slipped to the forefront of his mind, while he was watering his plants, sitting on the M25, suffering through another boring meeting in Hell, the thought would wriggle its way forward: For as long as he could remember, there had _always_ been five Archangels.  
  
And it was that caveat that gave him pause. That made his stomach lurch.  
  
For as long as he could remember.  
  
Except his memories weren’t worth shit, were they? God had taken his name. Any memory that involved the use of it was like watching a television but all the audio turned to white noise. They’d taken _all_ the memories of the angels who remained loyal. What was altering the memory of a single archangel on top of all that? Or more? How many archangels had there been, really? Six? Seven? A dozen?  
  
Crowley didn’t like going down that path. If there were more memories he was missing, who was to say the ones he _did_ have were any good? What else had been altered? Changed? Erased? Had Aziraphale-of-Before ever actually loved him? What if…what if he only thought he did? What if that was fake too?  
  
He shut his eyes.  
  
He knew what was real. Heaven and Hell could play their games but on Earth he knew what was real. He opened his eyes. The pond. Those ducks. The solidity of the bench beneath him. The small box on his leg.  
  
“I am Anthony J. Crowley,” he said under his breath. “That is my name, _I_ chose it, and no one is going to take that from me.”  
  
He decided he didn’t care if he’d been an archangel, he wasn’t one anymore. And he didn’t care what may or may not have happened between him and Aziraphale in the past, they’d forged new memories on Earth, six thousand years worth, and that was real too. Six thousand years to the day.  
  
Well, maybe not to the day, calendars hadn’t quite been invented back then. But he was fairly certain it had been spring, that first rain on the wall, and so he’d waited until a fairly nice spring day to ask Aziraphale to meet him in the park, because the bookshop didn’t have a garden and his plant room didn’t count.  
  
By the time the angel arrived it was late afternoon and the ducks had given up on the idea of getting fed by Crowley and moved on to more promising visitors.  
  
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Aziraphale said as he sat down on the bench. “I was all ready to go but it was too early and so I thought I’d pass the time with some very light reading and then the next I knew, well…“  
  
“It’s alright,” Crowley said, and it really was, he didn’t have anywhere else to be. What was sixty minutes on six thousand years? “You could have sent me a message though.”  
  
“With what?” Aziraphale said. “I hardly think a carrier pigeon would have gotten here any sooner than—“  
  
“A carrier pi—a _text_ , you antique. If you’d let me get you a cellphone I could show you how to send me texts and I’d get it right away and—“  
  
“Instant messaging?”  
  
“Yeesss.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound real.”  
  
“I…I truly, _truly_ do not understand how you have survived this long on Earth, angel. You are some PhD candidate’s case study just waiting to happen.”  
  
Aziraphale gave him a sideways glare, lips pursed, eyebrow quirked. It was all very subtle and prim and proper but Crowley had learned it was the angel’s equivalent of calling him a rather rude word.  
  
“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, “how are the ducks?”  
  
“Bastards, as usual.”  
  
“Ah.” He glanced at the box. “And Daisy?”  
  
“Ugh. We decided, y’know, as a team, that we were going to go in a different direction with her look and that means _pruning_ which was fine until the actual pruning started and then suddenly it’s not fine and is, apparently, the end of the world.”  
  
“Oh, dear.”  
  
“She’s just being dramatic.”  
  
“Wonder where she could’ve possibly picked that up?”  
  
“Oh we are sassy today, aren’t we?”  
  
Aziraphale gave an innocent shrug that was anything but.  
  
“She’ll get over it,” Crowley said. What he didn’t say was that he had every intention of buying a small figurine he’d seen in a shop window that would fit perfectly among her roots.  
  
They sat in silence. It wasn’t quite as comfortable as it usually was and Crowley blamed the box on his leg. “Here,” he said, thrusting it out to Aziraphale, “got this for you.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah. Saw it. Thought of you. Not a big deal.”  
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale ran his fingers along the edge of the box, “No, uhm, no reason other than that?”  
  
Crowley wanted to say no, to shrug it off, but he thought of the diner in ‘94, of their hands on the table, while they talked about everything but their pinkies entwined. He thought of the other things to happen the New Year’s of ‘99. Of Aziraphale’s hands on his waist. The way the angel had licked his lips before looking at him with lust burning in those blue eyes of his. And later, when he’d taken Aziraphale to his apartment for the first time and showed him his plants and the angel had drunkenly fawned over them and complimented Crowley on doing such an amazing job and together they repotted Reginald, a spider plant. And then later still, when they went up to the roof with potting soil on their knees and under their nails and passed a bottle of wine between them while looking at the stars, Aziraphale asking which ones the demon had personally tended to and Crowley pretending he couldn’t tell which was which from so far away even though he knew them each better than he knew his own heart. He thought of the way Aziraphale had hesitantly rested his head on his shoulder, the both of them tense with memories of a lunch date in Rome gone sour and how, suddenly, after so many millennia, it was okay.  
  
“It’s…2004,” he said, finally.  
  
“It is,” Aziraphale said with a small smile.  
  
“Right, so, yeah. Open the stupid thing.”  
  
Aziraphale carefully opened the box, pulling out, and miracling away, a bit of tissue paper before lifting out the gift itself: a white coffee mug with angel wings for a handle.  
  
“Oh, Crowley! This is adorable!”  
  
“Yeah? It’s not…too much?”  
  
“Not at all, I love it!”  
  
“I thought maybe if you had a _distinct_ mug then you’d remember it and stop leaving a dozen all throughout the shop.”  
  
“I don’t leave a—“  
  
“I counted fourteen last week, angel.”  
  
“I…I get distracted,” he said in a small voice. “I got you something as well.”  
  
“Really?” Crowley had been so focused on trying to pass off his gift as something casual, he hadn’t considered the angel would have remembered the date as well.  
  
“Yes. I saw it. I thought of you. And I knew our—the,” he cleared his throat, “anniversary was comi—“  
  
“Anniversary?”  
  
“Well that’s what it is. Six thousand years. Anywhere, here.” He pulled a small rectangular box from his coat and handed it to Crowley.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“A gift.”  
  
“But what _is_ it?”  
  
“Oh for Heaven’s—open it!”  
  
Crowley gingerly took the box. He carefully, slowly, undid the bow the ribbon was tied into, and then undid the knot. He folded it into a neat little pile that he tucked into his coat pocket before gently peeeeeling away the tape that held one corner of the wrapping down.  
  
He could see Aziraphale visibly squirming.  
  
“Crowley,” the angel said, “I swear—“  
  
“Do you? I’d love to hear _that_.”  
  
Aziraphale took in a deep breath and let it out slow. “It’s your gift, do what you like.”  
  
With a snap of his fingers, Crowley miracled away the wrapping and found himself looking down at a black glasses case. He lifted the lid and inside sat quite possibly the absolute sexiest pair of sunglasses he’d ever seen.  
  
“Oh, angel.”  
  
“Do you like them?”  
  
“These are something else.”  
  
“Is that good?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“Oh good. They’re very, well, you. And I saw the sides and I thought they would really help block your eyes. Not—not that I think you need to keep them hidden. Quite the opposite, I think your eyes are lovely, but I know—“  
  
“You what?”  
  
“I…I like your eyes.”  
  
Crowley stared at Aziraphale. He thought perhaps the angel might have been mocking him but there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his face. “Why? They’re _hideous_.”  
  
“Oh Crowley…not at all. But, but I understand that you don’t think so and I respect that so, I got these for you.” He glanced around, “There’s no one nearby, if you’d like to try them on?”  
  
He slid his current pair off but before putting on the new ones he turned and look at Aziraphale and sure enough the angel just about melted in his seat. His eyes met Crowley’s with nothing but adoration and he let out a quiet sigh.  
  
“Oh,” he breathed, “you’re really so lovely, Crowley.”  
  
Something in the demon both unraveled and tightened so that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hide in shame or lunge forward and scoop the angel in his arms and kiss him senseless.  
  
He settled on putting on the new glasses and leaning back against the bench with flair.  
  
“Well?” he asked. “How do they look?”  
  
“Perfect,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“Good. I’ll never buy another pair.”  
  
The angel smiled down at his mug.  
  
“So,” Crowley said, “how many marshmallows do you think you can fit in there?”  
  
“Well,” Aziraphale responded with a quickness that said he’d already put quite a bit of thought into it, “if we’re talking about the large ones I think three, comfortably, but if we’re talking regular sized then I want to say between fourteen and seventeen but…I’m not entirely sure.“  
  
“Let’s go back and find out.” He’d almost said ‘home’ but caught himself just in time. Maybe in a few years. Maybe in the next ten years he’d finally tell Aziraphale he loved him and maybe the angel would respond in kind and then maybe he could call the bookshop home and bring over a few much needed (low-light of course) plants and Aziraphale could leave a few of his favorite books at his place and maybe he could hold his hand and steal kisses on the couch in the back room.  
  
Just a few more years.  
  
They had time.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience! And welcome, new readers! You're just in time for the REAL pain!

-The National Gallery, 2008-

  
“So,” Aziraphale said, his voice tight, “Armageddon.”  
  
“Yup,” Crowley responded, hands shoved into his pockets.  
  
The two walked through the gallery at a leisurely pace, Aziraphale’s thoughts anything but. He was still a little shaken from having seen Gabriel on Earth. It had completely put him off his sushi, which was a shame. And then Crowley called and they made plans to meet the next day, in secret of course.  
  
For the first time in centuries Aziraphale found himself feeling anxious about being so near the demon, worried that someone might spot them. His thoughts were such a mess he kept looking down to realize he’d nearly missed miracling away another stray feather before Crowley might see it.  
  
They were falling out at an alarming rate.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“I should know,” Crowley said, “I delivered the baby. Well, not delivered the baby, y’know. Handed it over.”  
  
He let out another heavy sigh, wringing his hands together. This simply did not go well with his plans _at all_. He was finally going to suggest that picnic he’d mentioned back in the 60’s. He’d been working up to it since they’d exchanged their gifts (Crowley was still wearing the glasses and Aziraphale always felt a swell of pride to see it). He’d been _thinking_ about it since 1999.  
  
And now.  
  
Armageddon.  
  
Wonderful.  
  
He wondered how long _that_ would delay things. How would he possibly be able to see Crowley, even in secret, without Earth as their middle ground? He wondered how Heaven planned to get Hell under order when they won. Perhaps he could find him there? It would be so difficult trying to avoid all those awful demons though. There was simply no way for Crowley to sneak into Heaven..  
  
Would Earth start over?  
  
Oh, he couldn’t imagine suffering through another six thousand years before music and art and hot cocoa were a thing again. Because it would be, of course. A little different, undoubtedly, but God wouldn’t just…destroy it all.  
  
The angel forcefully pushed away thoughts of a flood.  
  
Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, wondering if he’d any thoughts on how they would continue…whatever this was after the war.  
  
“We will win, of course,” he said in attempt to broach the topic.  
  
Crowley barely looked at him, “You really believe that?”  
  
“Obviously. Heaven will triumph over Hell. It’s all going to be rather lovely.”  
  
The demon stopped so abruptly that Aziraphale actually stumbled.  
  
“ _Lovely_?” he hissed.  
  
“I—“  
  
“’Lovely’ is not a word you use to describe _war_ , angel. What do you think is going to happen, really?”  
  
“Well, we’ll, things will—“  
  
“All of this,” he waved a hand out, gesturing around the gallery, “will be gone!”  
  
Aziraphale glanced around at the few patrons in the room and took a step closer to the demon, “Crowley…”  
  
“Every human,” he continued, voice lowered although it did nothing to calm Aziraphale’s nerves, “every animal, every restaurant you love, every first edition of every book, gone. Burned up. No memory of it because what will your lot have for any of it? They don’t appreciate it, not the way you do, never have. As for us? Our sides? What? Do you, do you think it’s just a game of tag? Boop! You’re out, go sit in the naughty corner until this round of Armageddon is over? _No_.”  
  
Aziraphale lowered his gaze and Crowley leaned in.  
  
“There will be death,” the demon said in strained whisper. “A lot of it. You thought the plague was awful? That was nothing, angel. Humans, demons, angels, no one will be exempt. It will just be smoke and fire and the stench of bloated corpses. You don’t reme—know what it’s like to try and wash blood out of wings.”  
  
Unable to look him in the face, Aziraphale saw that Crowley’s hands had left his pockets and were clenched in fists at his sides, knuckles white. He was shaking.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the angel said quietly. “I didn’t…” He didn’t think. His first thought was that if Heaven won, well they were still _angels_ , they wouldn’t…they wouldn’t _kill everyone_. But the image Crowley painted was vivid in its horrors, he couldn’t imagine what memories the demon had stored away.  
  
He stared at the floor, replaying Crowley’s words in his head.  
  
It was true, he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember the war or the events leading up to it or what life was like even before that. Over the years he’d let himself believe that it was all routine, as mundane as submitting paperwork for a successful blessing. Signed in triplicate, stamped, filed. Sterile and serene and the only danger posed was the risk of losing one’s mind from boredom while standing in the queue.  
  
Surely the war would be no different?  
  
But then he would think of the pain in Crowley’s eyes or voice whenever he spoke of before. Of letting go. Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder, what role had _he_ played in it all? Did he and Crowley know each other? Had they fought one another? Or had they always been friends? Was that why the demon bothered talking to him all those millennia ago? Why he always sought him out? If that were true then…what _happened_ to put them on opposite sides?  
  
Maybe it was a blessing he couldn’t remember.  
  
He listened to Crowley take a few steadying breaths and looked up to see the demon run a hand through his hair. It was shoulder-length now, Aziraphale thought absently. It’d been longer the last time they saw each other. He desperately wanted to run his fingers through it. Brush the strands from the demon’s face. Trace a fingertip along the snake at his temple. He wondered if Crowley would ever let him brush it.  
  
“Are you listening?”  
  
“Hmm? I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“We’ve only got eleven years,” Crowley said, turning to resume their stroll through the gallery, “and then it’s all over.”  
  
Right. All of it. Over.  
  
“We have to work together.”  
  
Aziraphale followed behind him, “What am I supposed to do, Crowley? This is the Divine Plan, I can’t just go against that. Gabriel came here. To _Earth_.”  
  
Crowley let out a disgusted groan.  
  
“He never comes to Earth if he can help it. He came here just to tell me it’s starting. And to keep an eye on you. They’ll know if I go against this…”  
  
“It’s the end of the world we’re talking about, angel.”  
  
“I get that, my dear, but I can’t just disobey Heaven.”  
  
“Look you can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of the Divine Plan. I mean you’re supposed to thwart the wiles of the evil one at every turn. Ya see a while, ya thwart, am I right?”  
  
Aziraphale sighed, “Something like that.”  
  
“We can do something. I have an idea. And you can easily spin it as though it’s all part of you keeping an eye on me.”  
  
“I don’t know…I-I need to think about it.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
And then…it was like any other afternoon stroll through an art gallery. They walked together for a while, Crowley sometimes making a quiet “hmm” to get Aziraphale’s attention to something he was looking at, Aziraphale opting for a less subtle grab of his arm or nudging him with his elbow to point out a piece that intrigued him. Eventually, without ever really talking about where they were going or where they might find one another, they went their separate ways. Aziraphale always started with his favorite sections before wandering into new territory. Once he’d asked Crowley what his routine was whenever they split off and the demon said he didn’t have one. He simply…walked until something caught his eye and more often than not that sole piece received his entire attention, his mind tumbling, until the two met up again.  
  
That was why Aziraphale wasn’t at all surprised to find Crowley standing in one spot, not too far from where they’d first split off, staring up at a painting. The angel slipped in beside him and looked at the piece.  
  
It was ridiculous.  
  
It was, he supposed, meant to be a depiction of heaven. There were the usual bits, fat cherubs with small wings and smaller musical instruments. Great swaths of flowing fabrics. Stern looking angels with golden, circular halos behind their heads. Others, without the golden halos, humans he supposed, frolicked about, laughing. They had books and paints and sat in each other’s laps and put flowers in one another’s hair. There were clouds and trees and flowers, someone was on a swing. He counted three flutes and some other instrument that was part string, part wood and part…flesh? _Really_ wasn’t sure what he was looking at there. And then there were the colors. Clouds of bright green and yellow and purples. Trees that were blue. Grass that was red and lilac. He couldn’t keep track of it all. They spilled one into another in a way that might have made sense if he took a few steps far, far back.  
  
He frowned and glanced at Crowley, who stood, head tilted, hands barely shoved into his too-small pockets. It was hard to tell what the demon was thinking on a regular day, he couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking looking at this…monstrosity.  
  
“A demon painted this,” he said, without looking away from the painting.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. Well, a demon possessing a human, you know what I mean.”  
  
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, turning back to it. He noticed a stairwell off in a corner, hidden behind some trees. It didn’t connect to anything at all, its top step fell just short of the clouds and the bottom step hovered above the ground. A small figure obscured by the shadows of the trees sat in the middle. “That explains it. No wonder they got it so very wrong.”  
  
“The contents are way off. Well,” Aziraphale watched the demon slowly look over the painting and he wished he could see where his eyes would stop and linger, “most of them, anyway.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“But the _colors_ ,” Crowley said softly. “Only a Fallen could get that _so right_.”  
  
Aziraphale stared at Crowley and then at the painting. The colors? Heaven…Heaven didn’t _have_ colors. It didn’t have trees or grass or clouds or flowing, unending swaths of fabric. It had white walls and clear glass windows. Squeaky linoleum floors and concrete pillars. There weren’t musical instruments or frolicking or hair braiding.  
  
“Hmm,” Crowley said quietly, contentedly. “And here it is, on Earth.”  
  
Why did Crowley have such a different vision of Heaven? Why did he know a Heaven with color and sound? One that was destroyed, overrun with fire and blood. Why was Aziraphale left only with the sterilized version? Why, when the war was over, was there no more color or sound or…life? What had changed?  
  
Besides, of course, the Fallen.  
  
Aziraphale stole another glance at Crowley. He wanted to hear about the Heaven Crowley remembered. He wanted to know what happened, what led up to the war, of course. But he also wanted to know what, exactly, about this painting was accurate? What colors? Which ones? Which blade of grass was more true than the other? Had there been trees and flowers and water and sand? What sort of music was there? Had there been books? What did the angels used to do in their spare time?  
  
_Had they known each other?_  
  
He looked at Crowley and he knew with every flair of pain in his wings, with every feather that fluttered down, that even if he never got an answer to any of those questions, he trusted the demon. And if he said he had a plan, then, well… what was a little disobedience after six thousand years, really?  
  
“Dear?”  
  
“Yeah?” Crowley said, turning to him.  
  
Aziraphale wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point Crowley had stopped audibly choking on air whenever he called him ‘dear’ and now he responded as though it were the most natural thing in the world.  
  
He had no intention of losing that to a silly war. If… _thwarting_ Armageddon meant he still got to see Crowley’s smile, sit in the sun in the park, try new restaurants, get very drunk on good wine and listen, baffled, as Crowley tried to explain why possums were adorable, then, well, that was quite alright with him.  
  
“You said you had a plan?”  
  
The demon smiled, the angel’s heart ached, and they made their way to a café for lunch, a dusting of white feathers that were miracled away almost as quickly as they fell followed behind them.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. Listen. I have never in my life seen Mary Poppins. My knowledge extends to about as much as Crowley can remember in this scene. DON'T JUDGE ME FOR MY CRIMES.

-Crowley’s Apartment, 2008- 

  
Crowley pushed the cap back onto the tube of lipstick and took in his reflection. No, no it was much too bright. He miracled his lips clean and tossed the tube aside, reaching for the next. It had to be just the right shade.  
  
His walk in closet was essentially a room all its own, complete with what one would expect, full-length mirrors, an array of clothes in blacks and midnights and shadow and ebony and whatever fancy name clothing companies came up with for ‘black’. A splash of red or grey making an appearance every so often. There was an entire section of closet with actual doors, doors he had miracled on before Aziraphale arrived, and behind them were all of his heels and dresses and gowns.  
  
He didn’t really think the angel would care one way or the other. There hadn’t been a concept of gender or sex or fiddly-bits before the humans. Knowing another angel was…a very different process. But Aziraphale didn’t remember any of that and he’d been living on Earth as a human for millennia. The man had very strong opinions on wasting perfectly good avocado on toast when it could be made into ice cream.  
  
Both options sounded horrendous to Crowley.  
  
Why would anyone put something so green into their mouths? Well…apples could be green, so that didn’t quite hold up, did it? It most likely boiled down to the shade of green, no one was going to eat a puce colored frui—puce is brown, not green.  
  
“My dear,” Aziraphale said from the other side of the door.  
  
“Why does the word ‘puce’ taste like it oughta be green?”  
  
“I…I’m not sure? Are you quite alright in there?”  
  
“Sorry, almost done.”  
  
“Alright,” he said, although Crowley heard a quiet mutter of, “How long does it take to miracle a disguise?”  
  
The demon carefully applied a second coat to his lower lip. He wasn’t usually a fan of the ones with the little wand applicators but this one went on rather nicely. Technically, the clothes had taken no time at all. But some things he liked to do himself, with his own hands. Although it’d been a while since he’d fumbled with bobby pins and so that had taken some time. A dash of mascara, a touch of eyeliner, not that anyone would see either through his glasses, but that was alright. This wasn’t for them, this was for him. He had to remind himself of that before opening the dressing room door. This was something he’d found for himself back in the 20s, back when he was learning to live without being defined by his love for the angel, and he couldn’t let the angel’s reaction good or…possibly bad, change that.  
  
Crowley took a final look in the mirror, smiling for himself. This was the reflection he didn’t entirely hate. Even his horrid eyes seemed more tolerable with a bit of makeup. He winked, took a deep breath and threw open the door.  
  
“All done, come have a look.”  
  
Aziraphale must have wandered out to chat with the plants because it took him a moment to come into the bedroom and when he turned into the dressing room he came to a complete stop.  
  
“… _Oh._ ”  
  
Crowley swallowed, “Oh?”  
  
“I uh,” the angel cleared his throat, “what-what inspired this?”  
  
“Honestly? I saw a movie once with a magic nanny? At least I think she was a nanny. She flew around on an umbrella?”  
  
“What, like a witch?”  
  
“No, I don’t know, look, I was really drunk when I saw it. Point is, that’s all I could think of when I thought ‘nanny’. But with, y’know, some demonic flair.”  
  
“I see. It’s…been a while since you presented like this. Not since, what, Golgotha?”  
  
“Uh…well…that you’ve seen.”  
  
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up, “Oh?”  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said, turning to one of the full-length mirrors, “in the 20s.”  
  
“When you were in America?”  
  
“Mm. Showed quite a bit of ankle, angel.”  
  
He watched in the mirror as Aziraphale’s gaze slowly took in the length of him and then, somehow even slower, wandered back up.  
  
“Scandalous,” the angel final managed.  
  
Their eyes met in the mirror and the two shared a small smirk.  
  
Crowley looked away first, turning this way and that to fully appreciate the outfit. He ran his hands down his sides, feeling the smoothness of the fabric. The 20s really had been an indulgent time and he'd learned a lot about himself during it. He had even changed up his physicality a bit, gave himself a slight curve, some breasts, but it wasn’t long before he realized he didn’t like it and transitioned back. Although he kept the lower fiddly-bits, that he _did_ like. Liked the delicate folds. He thought it complimented his lanky frame, the angles of his body. It had taken him a long time to be able to look in the mirror and not spiral into self-hate, and he still struggled, but this, this helped.  
  
“I miss it,” he said, “feels good.”  
  
“Looks good,” Aziraphale responded, rather quickly.  
  
Crowley looked at him then and oh the angel’s cheeks were so red.  
  
“I mean, oh please, you’ve always been good with fashion and you know it.”  
  
“Hmm,” Crowley said before turning to leave, “come on angel, we’ve got phone calls to make.”  
  
“Dear, as-as lovely as this disguise is, are you sure you’ll be able to keep up with a toddler in it?”  
  
“Snakes can be incredibly fast, you know.”  
  
“Yes, but they don’t have legs, Crowley, much less stilettos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really identify with Crowley as seen through the lens of a trans person but also (if it wasn't obvious by now) a trauma survivor. So this scene is really important to me. Please be nice.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: When I started writing this fic I had no idea there was an actual hierarchy of angels. I always just thought there were angels and archangels and that was it. So for the world of this fic archangels are the top of the chain.

-The Bookshop, 2010-

Aziraphale checked his pocket watch. Crowley should be home soon. He smiled at the thought, “home”. He certainly considered the bookshop home, but he couldn’t be sure the demon felt the same. Still, it had become their main place to rendezvous at the end of the week.

The Dowlings had offered Crowley, as Nanny Ashtoreth, a place to stay on the grounds and he accepted but only during the week. He came back on weekends to see to his plants and, Aziraphale suspected, get a nice, long drive in. Often he would stop by on his way to his flat on Friday night and they would have a glass of wine and talk, but usually they met on Saturdays in the afternoon for tea and lunch and to compare notes on the young Warlock. There wasn’t much influencing to be done before but he was two now and learning quickly.

Aziraphale puttered around, moving the same book from one side of his desk to the other. Crowley was late. That was fine, he might have gotten caught up arguing with one of his plants or even just…staring off into the middle distance thinking very Crowley-like thoughts. He’d wait a little while then try calling his cell phone.

He didn’t have to wait long before the shop door slammed open and a disgruntled Crowley came storming through.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, as he watched the demon stalk past him and go straight to the back room.

He was only half changed out of his Nanny disguise, leaving him with the curls and make-up, his glasses, but his usual Crowley suit, and a pair of heels. How he didn’t break his neck sauntering around in those things was a thing of mystery.

He’d always been a little envious of Crowley’s ability to change his looks to suit the times. The last time he tried he’d nearly been discorporated by way of decapitation. After that he’d found a look that worked and saw no reason to change it. But not Crowley.

Luckily the shop was empty and so Aziraphale flipped the sign and headed towards the back. He turned the corner into their little alcove to find the demon slouched on the couch, one long leg crossed over the other, as he massaged his temples.

“Everything alright?”

“I _just_ got back into London, angel.”

“What? Why?”

He took a deep breath, slipping his glasses off and tucking them into his jacket pocket. “Apparently the Dowlings had some sort of _event_ or something, I don’t know, Friday night and so I agreed to stay on until today. I was supposed to be out by this morning but they were late and so I’m late and children. Are. The worst.”

Aziraphale knew well enough how fond Crowley was of young Warlock, even though he’d never admit it out loud. “He’s not so bad,” he said.

One of the demon’s eyebrows arched and his lips pursed. A few strands had come loose of his up-do, although his lipstick was still perfect, not a smudge. Aziraphale fought the urge to squirm under the demon’s glower with a feeling he chose not to identify.

“That,” Crowley said, “ _devil child_ had a tantrum for two. _Hours._ Because water…is wet.”

Aziraphale bit back a laugh.

“He would splash in the fountain and then cry when he got wet!”

“You could have just miracled him dry.”

“I _did_. That only made it worse ‘cause then he thought, ‘oh, water _isn’t_ wet, guess I’ll just pop my whole bloody body in’! Then I’ve got a wailing, drenched toddler.”

“Oh dear. Well…was he any better after his nap?”

“Oh yeeeess,” the demon said in a tone that said the exact opposite. “Until he gave me a handful of nothing. Nothing at all, angel. And I took it to indulge the little creature. But when he came back for it, no matter what nothing I gave him, it wasn’t the same _nothing_ he’d given me.”

Aziraphale could imagine the back and forth clearly and it was taking everything in him not to laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Crowley leaned his head back once more, “I thought the Dukes of Hell gave me migraines, they’re nothing compared to Warlock.”

“Well…he is the spawn of Satan.”

The demon let out a groan and went back to massaging his temples.

“Why don’t you take a day off?”

Crowley opened one eye long enough to give the angel a skeptical look.

“Really! Tell them you’ve an appointment with your physician. Your car broke down. Both! I’m sure I could convince them to let me take charge of the boy for a day.”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course!”

The demon seemed to think on it for all of two seconds before he said, “Fine. Done.” And immediately melted into the couch.

“Wonderful. You relax, I’ll put on the kettle.”

“Hrm,” was the response.

Aziraphale hummed to himself as he made his way to the little kitchenette area in the back. He went with chamomile for Crowley, he wouldn’t drink it, he never did, but Aziraphale thought the smell of it might be relaxing for him. He made himself some hot cocoa, of course.

The coming apocalypse hadn’t thrown their routines off quite as much as he thought it would. They still often had lunches or dinners together. Sometimes caught a play on the weekend. And of course they saw each other at the Dowlings which was a completely different environment. And then there was the Bookshop. Home. He wondered if it would be easier for Crowley to just…stay at the shop? At least while they were working for the Dowlings. He could easily miracle up a bedroom for him. He spent his whole week on the estate and then almost the entire weekend at the Bookshop, it just made more sense. He could still pop by his flat to tend to the plants, of course.

Aziraphale worried an extra-large marshmallow between his fingers, smooshing it about. Perhaps that was too bold of him. Lunches and dinners and teas…and movies and plays and drunken discussions and, he smiled a small smile, gentle pinky holding were all one thing but, well, essentially asking the demon to stay with him so that he could see him more often without having to sludge through the hours between him leaving Saturday night and coming back Sunday afternoon was something else entirely.

Would that be too much?

But if he said yes then they could drive to the Dowlings together Monday mornings. Aziraphale didn’t stay the week there, he wasn’t even there every day, truth be told. But he could make sure to be there Fridays and they could drive back. Maybe Crowley wouldn’t mind if he accompanied him to tend to the plants. And then they could go out for dinner. And then come back to the Bookshop. Back home.

Aziraphale realized he was grinning like a madman and had a completely decimated marshmallow stuck to his fingertips. “Oh dear.” He looked over at their drinks. Crowley’s tea had seeped far too long and the marshmallows that did make it to his cocoa had gone well past the prime warm and melty marshmallow stage. “Oh dear,” he said again.

The angel miracled his fingers clean and headed back out to where Crowley was, “I’m sorry, my dear, I got a bit distracted, won’t be but a…” He trailed off when he saw the demon. He was laying out across the couch, already fast asleep. “Ah,” Aziraphale said. So much for tea then.

Crowley had gotten better over the decades about sleeping for shorter bursts and now kept a schedule similar to what Aziraphale thought most humans aimed for. Still, once he was out, he was out cold and there was nothing waking him until something in his body clicked and he woke up. Given how exhausted he was when he got in, Aziraphale assumed Crowley wouldn’t wake until sometime Sunday evening. That was alright. They’d have dinner and then he’d ask if Crowley might want to stay at the Bookshop. It gave him some time to work up the nerve.

Aziraphale grabbed the throw from the back of the couch and gently draped it over the demon. He was so lovely. It didn’t matter what clothes he wore, or what accessories, the glasses (even though Aziraphale always got a little thrill to see him take such good care of the ones he’d given him), whatever new thing he was doing with his hair… The angel squinted, leaning in for a closer look.

Was he wearing real, physical, pins in his hair?

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale muttered, “no wonder you’ve a migraine.” He knelt down on the floor and started to carefully slide the pins out, one by one. When they were all free and in a small pile on the floor, Aziraphale gently combed the curls out with his fingers. Even once his hair was pin and curl and knot free, the angel found he couldn’t quite stop. He loved the feeling of the demon’s soft locks falling between his fingers. He thought he could sit there forever. Perhaps a slightly different version where Crowley was awake and looking up at him with those eyes and that smile and they were talking softly about a play they’d just seen.

Was he asking for too much? That this demon, one of the Fallen who, Aziraphale was almost certain, had been an archangel, who had created stars and hung them in the sky, who forged endless beauty with his fingertips, who loved Earth and the humans and all of their fallacies enough to try and thwart the apocalypse with him, was it too much to ask that he might one day feel that same love for an angel? That he might smile and laugh, unabashed, in front of him, that he might run those same fingertips through his hair as he once had, so briefly but so gently, that he might speak the angel’s name soft and true and just a little breathless, the way he might have named the stars?

Was it too much?

Was he being greedy?

He wasn’t sure he cared. He wanted the demon. He wanted all of him. He wanted the smiles and the sarcasm and the way he listened so intently to the way Aziraphale described his meals only to gag and mock them. He wanted more plays and more shows and yes, even more bebop. He wanted to hold his _bloody hand_ and kiss him and know him, every part. He wanted eternity but only if it came with Crowley.

Pain flared across his back.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, wincing at the burn between his shoulder blades, “I lov—“

“Aziraphale?”

His head snapped up toward the front of the shop.

No…

“Aziraphale?”

Gabriel.

“Principality, are you in here?”

And _Uriel?_

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, “J-Just a moment!” He stared down at Crowley. He considered, briefly, for a mad moment, trying to wake him but even if he did succeed the demon would wake annoyed and spluttering and loud and that would not end well. He tried taking several deep, calming breathes, which only succeeded in making him more panicked, and rushed out toward the front.

“Gabriel!” He tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, smoothed it, tugged again, and settled on wringing his hands. "What-what brings you to Earth? Again? E-Either of you?”

“Did we interrupt something?” Uriel asked. Despite her consistently monotone voice and blank face, Uriel had a way of making even the simplest questions sound accusatory.

It didn’t help any that they _had_ interrupted.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said, “was organizing some papers.”

“So,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands together. Aziraphale flinched at the sound and movement. “I just wanted to warn you that I’ve heard the demon Ra—“

Uriel cleared her throat.

“Oh, right. What’s he calling himself down here?”

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s mind spun. What was he going to say? _What was he going to say?_ He knew what Crowley’s name had been as an angel. He knew.

“Right,” Gabriel said. “Crowley. Disgusting. Anyway, he’s in close proximity to the anti-christ. Probably to ensure the child is properly evil. Don’t know, don’t care. We just thought…”

“You might want to give up on your attempt to influence the child.”

“It really is pointless. Plus, you don’t want to run into this demon ahead of time! Save it for the war!” At that Gabriel gave a little encouraging pump of his fist that was accompanied by a truly, genuinely happy smile. It was terrifying. “Then we can smite them all with righteous justice. Especially that Crowley.”

“O-Oh?” Aziraphale squeaked.

“Oh, I hate that guy,” Gabriel said.

“He’s a dick,” Uriel said.

“Always was, even as an angel.”

“Which is why he fell.”

“Yes!” Gabriel trailed his finger through the air and then down, “Whooo. Pow. Straight down.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Or at least he tried to. His throat was so dry. They remembered before the war. They remembered what happened leading up to it. They remembered everything. Why didn’t he? They’d known Crowley before, personally. He must have, _must have_ been an archangel.

“Anyway,” Gabriel said, “there’s what, nine years left?”

“Can’t wait,” said Uriel.

“Yes. Of-of course. And…everyone will be there? For th-the war?”

Gabriel frowned, “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale tried desperately to calm his nerves. To will some sense of solid ground beneath his feet. He felt as though they could see his legs shaking. Hear his voice quiver. He’d never ever before even considered being so duplicitous toward a superior, much less attempting it. “I mean, the demons and their ilk, and the angels, and the lower celestials and all seven of the archangels and the humans, of course, since it’ll be on Ear—“

“What did you say?” Gabriel’s tone went hard, the smile gone from his face.

“Hmm?”

“You said lower celestials and…?” Uriel prompted.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, trying for his usual chipper tone, “and all five of the archangels and of course the humans and…why? What is it?”  
Gabriel and Uriel exchanged a glance before Uriel said, “Nothing.”

“Oh I do apologize if I’m not being quite clear, bit of a headache I’m afraid.” He swallowed and said possibly the first honest thing he had in that conversation, “My mind feels a bit jumbled.”

“You should rest,” Uriel said. “Get it straightened out.” Only she should could lace a suggestion for bed rest with an inherent threat.

“Yes, of course. I’ll do just that.”

“Well then,” Gabriel said, his smile back once more, “just nine more years and then it’s game time! That’s something humans say, right?”

“Sure,” Uriel said, without taking her eyes of Aziraphale.

And then the two were gone.

Slowly, Aziraphale turned and made his way back to Crowley. He stood in the entryway to their little alcove, their respite. Where work and sides and none of it mattered. Only how much wine was left, how well Daisy was taking her pruning, and whether or not tuna could be considered a fish on the grounds that saying ‘tuna fish’ would just be saying ‘fish fish’ and no other fish, that Crowley could think of, got that same qualifier tacked on at the end.

There had been so much _hatred_ in Gabriel’s voice. Hatred and…joy. Pure joy at the thought of smiting demons. Of smiting Crowley. They remembered. Aziraphale had picked a number at random when talking of the archangels. For some reason seven had felt right. The looks on their faces though… they remembered what Heaven used to be like, they remembered who the demons were, they remembered the war. They knew and they still wanted another one. Aziraphale took a deep breath as his nerves slowly morphed into something else.

Into anger.

They would stop the apocalypse, stop the war. They had to. Because otherwise there would be fighting. Death, as Crowley had said. And his demon had gone through so much already, he would not let anyone hurt him again. Even if that meant raising his stupid flaming sword to—

Blinding, searing pain blossomed across his back before he could finish the thought.

Because he didn’t need to.

The intent was there.

Aziraphale fell to his knees with a cry. Several dozen feathers fell into the air around him and fluttered to the ground. All three sets of his wings felt as though they were being twisted and yanked. He gritted his teeth and fell forward, grasping at the carpet.

“No no no no no, please…”

From the base of his neck, just below his halo, and all across his back white hot pain flared from bone to muscle to the very tip of every feather. He cried out, his entire body seizing in an amount of agony his mind couldn’t quite process, and then he passed out.

When Aziraphale came to he was face down on the carpet. He turned his head slowly, with a groan, to see light from the setting sun covering his hand. He could hear, distantly, the chatter of people outside, traffic, and the gentle snore of a sleeping demon.

He hurt all over. He had to get up. Assess the damage. He dragged his hand closer, intent to push himself into an upright position, but the movement sent a small puff of dust up into the air and he coughed.

No. Not dust.

Ash.

Fueled entirely by a rush of adrenaline that was in turn fueled entirely by fear and panic, Aziraphale pushed himself up. The pain the movement created threatened to cause him to black out again and he only made it as far as propping himself up on his forearms. But it was enough.

He lay in a perfect circle of ash and soot.

“Oh….oh no….”

His halo was still intact, he could feel it, however faint it was but his wings… With a quivering breath, Aziraphale brought one of his wings forward and into his line of sight and immediately let out a choked sob.

There was no wing. No feathers. There was only the bone, skin torn and bloody. It jutted out into the air in front of him like some sort of alien appendage. Skinny and malnourished, wounded and horrific. It wasn’t his. It couldn’t be his. He could feel where it connected to him but he couldn’t reconcile the image of what was in front of him with what was _supposed_ to be there. It felt foreign. Wrong. He could only imagine how his back must look. Burned and bloody, the bones of his wings sticking out like freakish insect legs. He shuddered in disgust.

Aziraphale fell onto his side, a cloud of ash pillowed up around him as he did and he coughed on it. It stung his eyes. He clutched his face with both hands and shut his eyes and sobbed and prayed.

The angel could have prayed for anything.

He could have prayed for forgiveness.

For a moment to explain.

He could have prayed for a second chance.

For an opportunity to repent.

What the angel prayed for, with every fiber of his being, harder than he had ever prayed for anything in his many, many years on Earth, was that the demon on his couch would not wake and see him like this.


	24. Chapter 24

-The Bookshop, 2010, a few months later-

Crowley was surprised to see the bookshop actually crowded. Well, there were perhaps eight people wandering about but that was the equivalent of a rush hour train car by the Bookshop’s standards. For that many people to be in the shop at any given time meant that Aziraphale wasn’t successfully scaring them off. The demon made his way to the back room, prepared to find the angel at his desk, hunched over some massive and dusty tome.

Instead, when he rounded the corner, he found Aziraphale at his desk, yes, but just…sitting there, staring at his mug, one finger tracing along the outer edges of the wings.

“You know you’ve people in your shop,” Crowley said as he flopped onto the couch.

“Hmm.”

“Soon they’re going to start asking about prices and to buy things.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you alright?” Crowley twisted around on the couch to better look at Aziraphale, “Angel?”

“Hmm? Yes?” He looked up and then back to the cup, “Yes, that’s,” he tapped one of the wings, “that’s me.”

“You’re being weird.” That was an understatement of massive proportions. Aziraphale had been acting strangely for months. He showed up less and less at the Dowlings and when he was there he was distracted, but by what, Crowley couldn’t say. Even when they were alone in the Bookshop he seemed to be…pulling away. A few weeks ago he’d suggested they be in some form of disguise when they meet, and to meet at various different places, always mixing it up. It felt a lot like when they first started getting to know one another…the second time. After Shakespeare and Arrangements. He didn’t want to go back to that. “Is everything alright?”

“Well…no. There’s an apocalypse on the way, for starts.”

Crowley scoffed and rolled onto his back once more, “We’re thwarting that, ‘member? And doing a damn good job of it too.”

“Hmm.”

It was hard to tell if they actually _were_ doing a good job, truth be told. Warlock was only nearly three and so far seemed the proper amount of evil for any nearly- three-year-old. They were certainly putting in a valiant effort. Or at least Crowley was. He was on the estate five days a week and, considering Mr. and Mrs. Dowling found their divided attentions focused on just about everything else but their son, Warlock was often attached to the demon’s hip. When Aziraphale was there he was just an awful gardener and not much better as a minder of children. At least he talked to Warlock though. Crowley hadn’t seen him say one word to any of his plants or trees or shrubbery in the last few months and the poor things were suffering for it.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Do…um,” the angel swallowed, “your True State was…”

Crowley stared hard at the ceiling. “Deformed?”

He wasn’t sure where this was coming from but he was fairly certain it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. Not yet, anyway. It’d taken him as long as it had to not let the thought of his True State hurt. Discussing it with Aziraphale, the angel realizing how hideous he really was, just the idea of it seemed to reopen all the wounds he’d spent so long meticulously biting closed.

“I…yes,” Aziraphale said quietly. “A snake is your…primary aspect now.”

That was equal parts question and statement and neither made any sense to Crowley. Why would he ask when he knew full well it was? Why would he state the fact at all? A snake was his _only_ aspect, now. Everything else was smoke that writhed like it was breathing, lightning that spiderwebbed across every surface and burned cold. Scales and fangs and teeth, all venomous, all sharp. He was smaller, so much smaller than he’d once been.

“Yeah,” he said. “Why?”

“Well, I’ve met a few demons in my time on Earth…um. There’s that, that Hasten—“

“Hastur.”

“Hastur fellow. He um, his-his aspect is—“

“A toad. Yeah.” Where, _the fuck_ , was he going with this?

“I met someone once, pretty sure theirs was a-a beetle of some sort.”

“Sounds probable.” He wasn’t seeing the ceiling anymore. It was taking everything in him to keep the bite out of his voice. If this was Aziraphale’s way of trying to tell him he hated Crowley’s True State, even without having seen it since his Fall… He wanted to believe it was all some very awkwardly and poorly phrased questions steeped entirely in curiosity. They’d discussed weirder things. But there was a hitch to the angel’s voice. A hesitance in his stutters. He was building up to saying something, or at least trying to.

“Are they all…reptiles or-or bugs of some form?”

“Don’t know,” Crowley said. He kept his voice as flat and neutral as possible. “I tend not to stick around for long in Hell, and not everyone has theirs on display like Hastur or Beelz.”

“Hmm. I suppose…someone that…that has maybe spent a lot of time running away from things might wind up with something with a lot of…legs.”

Crowley heard Aziraphale shift uncomfortably in the chair. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the ceiling. He wasn’t sure what he’d see in the angel’s face and he couldn’t handle it if it was disgust. “I guess,” he said. “I’ve always just thought it was random who got what.”

“That doesn’t sound very ineffable…”

Unable to take it any longer, Crowley launched upright, turning as he did, to sit on the edge of the couch and stare at Aziraphale. “Is there a _reason_ you’re asking all these questions about falling and asspects and-and bugsss? Is there something in particular you want to know? Something you want to _ssssay?_ ” He lost his ability to keep control of his tongue and his hiss halfway through speaking. He sounded angry and offended and well, he _was._

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, looking up from his cup. “I’m so sorry. I’m being insensitive…”

“Yeah. Little bit.” Crowley took a deep breath, “Look why don’t we focus on discussing Warlock for now? Maybe later, when I’m good and drunk, I can tell you all about my Olympic dive into—“

“You’re not in disguise.”

“What?”

“You’re not in disguise,” Aziraphale repeated, staring wide-eyed at Crowley as if he’d just walked in.

“Of course I’m not in a bloody disguise, we’re in the Bookshop, not one of your many rendezvous points. I can’t keep them all straight anyway.”

“No. You-you have to be,” he leaned over in his chair a little, peering out towards the rest of the shop, “you have to have some sort of disguise, Crowley.”

“Ugh, whyyy?” He sat back, “What’s the point?”

“To not be recognized! That’s the point!”

“But I’m _here!_ ”

“Yes and you can’t be.”

Crowley sat up once more, “What?”

“At least, not like this. I can’t risk someone recognizing you. You should go, we’ll meet later.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale pushed to his feet, still stealing glances towards the rest of the shop. “I need you to-to go. I need you to…” he swallowed, “to not be _here._ ”

“I…right. Course.” Crowley stood, “Whatever you need, angel.” He forced himself to look Aziraphale in the face when he said it and he almost wished he hadn’t. The angel had the audacity to look stricken, as though Crowley was the one who said something unwarranted, something hurtful, as though _he_ were the one to bring their different sides into their back room.

Into their home.

-Crowley's Apartment-

Later that evening he sat on the roof of his building, watching the sun set. He wasn’t sitting for long before he heard the distinct rumble of the ground shifting, atoms and space and all sorts of things in the air moving the way they shouldn’t. Once it settled he listened to the footsteps as they came closer to him.

“Ugh,” he said, “I’m working! Not now, obviously, but I was earlier! The anti-christ is well on his way to full blown evil-doing and—“

“Shh. Sh, sh shshsh. Shut. Up.” Beelzebub sat down next to Crowley, feet dangling over the edge. “For five bloody minutes can I just have quiet? No complaining, no repooooorts, no constant dripping or the incessant _buzzing_ just…quiet?”

Crowley stared at the Lord of Hell. He didn’t see them on Earth often, maybe a handful of times in the millennia he’d been top-side, and Crowley always forgot how much smaller Beelzebub seemed in this state. He fought the urge to poke one of the eyes on their ridiculous fly hat. Crowley looked back out at the sunset; he couldn’t say much, what with his myriad snake-themed accessories.

He wondered why Beelzebub had come. He wasn’t hard to find. He’d made sure, once he was properly settled in London, that all the most annoying demons knew where he lived. It lowered the odds of them trying to look for him and stumbling upon the bookshop and Aziraphale. They clearly weren’t there to talk about work or Armageddon.

So what then?

“You know,” Crowley said.

Beelzebub let out a full body groan.

“This is sort of like before.”

“What? With your inability to not. Talk?”

“Well…that. And I mean us. Sitting here. I won’t go so far as to say hanging out but…”

They were quiet a moment. Then, a little softly, “Your hair is a lot shorter now.”

Crowley snorted, “Yeeeeah. I’ve been thinking of growing it out though.”

“Oh for Satan’s sake. You could barely function with it before.”

“Ehh, I made do.”

“I believed, I genuinely believed, you were going to step on it and snap your own neck. First angel to discoporate their human body.”

Crowley chuckled, thinking of all the times he had, in fact, painfully yanked his head from sitting or stepping on his hair. Or that one time it had gotten caught in a black hole…

“It’s true,” Beelzebub said. “I had a bet with—“ They stopped. The casual air that had been building dissipated and almost immediately their guard was back up.

Crowley shifted his weight. “Your hair is longer now,” he offered.

Beelzebub took it, but only just. “Yeah. The,” they waved their hand around their head, where their flies normally were, “gives them something to hide in.”

“Ah.”

Down below a car horn cut the air.

“It’s disgusting,” Beelzebub said.

“The…flies?”

“The _sunset._ ”

“Oh.”

“Why should they get to have these colors? They were ours first.”

Crowley didn’t bother suggesting they could share it. Was it awful that the Heaven from Before no longer existed? Sure. But there were parts of it on Earth, if you knew where to look. And there were many more things unique to Earth that Heaven simply never would have had, even if the war never happened. He thought it was beautiful. And a little tragic. But he’d spent six thousand years learning to focus on the beauty. On the little joys. Little joys that often grew into genuine happiness that often spiraled, with no warning, into hope.

But demons weren’t supposed to think that way, so he didn’t say anything at all.

“We’re going to win this war. We’re going to burn it all and we’re going to win. We have to.”

“Why?”

“Because then…” Beelzebub looked down at their wrists, “because then it will have all been finally worth it.”

“And there’s…” he was pushing it, he knew he was, but he powered through anyway. “There’s no version that doesn’t involve burning everything?”

Beelzebub looked at him, their voice hard, “Why don’t you ask God, Crowley? You’re good at asking questions. And God’s always responded well to that, yeah?”

He looked away.

“It’s Their _plan._ It all burns. That’s what They want.”

Was it? Why make something just to set it up in flames? But then…why drown entire civilizations? Why war? Why plague? Why any of the things that happened on Earth since its creation?

“Did it work?” Beelzebub said suddenly.

“What?”

They shifted, continued to stare ahead at the sunset they hated so much, “That…angel you were talking about all those years ago. Did you get him to remember?”

Crowley could have feigned ignorance. Tried to play it off as though there hadn’t been anyone in particular, he had just been asking questions to ask them. But they both knew that wasn’t true. Beelzebub had come to him, unprompted, looking for…Crowley still didn’t know what. He thought of when he stood watch in the hall while the Lord of Hell cried. He was sure now that they knew he’d been out there.

“No,” Crowley said. He didn’t know how to tell Beelzebub that they’d found something else, something better. New, different from before, but undeniably theirs. That with each new day, each one they took for their own, the past mattered less and less.

“If you’d said ‘yes’…then I’d have had hope. But She won’t allow us that, Crowley. Not even hope. Remember that when the war comes. When it’s time to strike him down.” Beelzebub got to their feet, “I expect you to play your part.”

“I won’t,” Crowley said without thinking. “I won’t hurt him.”

Beelzebub sighed and looked up at the sky. “Then I’ll kill you both.” They fixed their gaze on Crowley. “Don’t worry, I’m not like Her. I can be merciful. I’ll kill you first. So you won't have to watch.”

And then they smiled a small smile that tore Crowley apart inside. Not because it was cruel or because it was without warmth or because it wasn’t Beelzebub. It hurt precisely because it _was_ Beelzebub. Because there was still a hint of the angel he once knew, the angel he talked with, teased, plotted harmless adventures with, and there was, in the small quirk of their lips, genuine warmth, and Crowley knew in that moment they would never again be friends because Beelzebub truly believed what they offered was a kindness.

The Lord of Hell sank into the roof of the building, disappearing from Earth altogether and Crowley sat staring at the spot where they had stood for several minutes more before he could bring himself to look away. When he did, he curled up, bringing his knees to his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs, and slowly unfurled his wings. He cocooned himself in the pitch black of them, shutting his eyes against the glimmer of light that shifted through them, a cruel reminder of what he once was.

He knew Aziraphale must have gotten a similar visit from someone in Heaven, probably Gabriel, and that was what had him behaving strangely. He knew the angel was likely keeping his distance to keep Crowley safe. Not unlike that day in the grocer… But so much had happened between them since then. Why didn’t Aziraphale trust him enough to tell him what was scaring him? They could figure it out _together_. Why didn’t he trust in them? In what they had? After all this time how could he still have doubts about them?

Crowley miracled his hair long, the way it used to be. It fell in cascades down his back, over his shoulder. It filled the space between his body and his wings and between the two, if he shut his eyes very tightly, he could pretend the warmth he felt was the warmth of someone holding him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had chunks of this drafted for literally months and I'm so glad to finally be able to share it with y'all. Sorry for the delay! I'd hoped to get this out by or on Halloween but that didn't quite happen. Still, it's a long one and I hope that makes up for it! Happy (late) Halloween you gorgeous ghouls <3.

-The Bookshop, 2012-

Aziraphale paced the shop from front to back. He would linger in the entryway to the little back area, but never go in, before making his way towards the front of the shop again. He tended to avoid the back room now. His desk and chair and the couch barely saw any use. He and Crowley saw less and less of each other as the months went on. Meeting once every few weeks, if that. Not since he told the demon he couldn’t be in the shop without a disguise.

After that Crowley began to withdraw from him. It wasn’t the first time in all the centuries they’d known each other that Aziraphale had succeeded in pushing him away, however unintentionally. But it was the first time that they technically still saw each other somewhat regularly, if from a distance, because after all Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth were coworkers of a sort. And so it was the first time Aziraphale was able to bear witness to Crowley’s slow process of retreating into himself and rebuilding the walls he constantly knocked down for the angel.

It was painful to watch.

Even Mrs. Dowling had commented on a shift in Mx. Ashtoreth. “They seem a bit off,” Mrs. Dowling had said, in passing.

“Oh?” prompted Brother Francis.

“Still wonderful with Warlock, of course. Just…I don’t know, quieter? Not that Mx. Ashtoreth has ever been much of a talker. I don’t know, forget I said anything.”

But Aziraphale couldn’t.

He groaned. Crowley had to know he was just trying to keep him safe. The both of them, in one piece, until Armageddon was dealt with. He wasn’t sure how to tell him about Gabriel’s threat without mentioning that it seemed the archangel remembered everything from before. Crowley was quite deft at shutting down any conversation that mentioned the war, heaven from before, or the possibility of him having been an archangel himself. Aziraphale certainly didn’t know how to bring any of it up without mentioning his…wings.

Or lack thereof.

The two were supposed to be meeting for a dinner date. They had tickets to see a string quartet Aziraphale fancied. The tickets were bought ages ago, right when the tour was announced, because the angel had insisted on doing it properly. But now it was the night of and the angel and demon hadn’t so much as been in the same place for more than hour, much less gone for a night out in over a year. And even though they’d gone _decades_ without seeing each other, this was different. Aziraphale knew he loved him now. He knew he wanted him.

He’d wait a little longer before calling his cellphone. It wasn’t like Crowley to simply not show up.

What if something happened?

No. He was fine. They were fine. Heaven had no reason to intervene with anything before the antichrist came into his power. And he doubted any of the archangels would recognize him as Nanny Ashtoreth.

He paced some more.

A muscle in his shoulder blade twitched. His skin itched. He tried to ignore it but it was either that or fixate on Crowley’s whereabouts so Aziraphale miracled a full-length mirror in front of him and took a deep breath.

Then he brought out his wings.

They were still just the bone. The skin over it had healed but none of the feathers ever grew back. He shifted them forward, around him. The small set at the base of his neck curled forward, resting on collarbone. The medium sized set, at his lower back, came in around his hips. And of course the main pair, they crossed in front of his body like a shield. He tried to tell himself it was almost like armor, but he still only saw freakish legs. Periodically, he checked his True State but it hadn’t changed except for the addition of dirt. Not filth, but soil. It seemed to gather around his edges, fall from him in dustings as he moved. Just bits of dark, rich, green-smelling soil. Bits of Earth. His halo was still intact. It was only his wings. He tried to find solace in that, because it meant he hadn’t Fallen, not really. But he wasn’t sure what _was_ happening.

Aziraphale noticed some sort of filmy substance running along his core set. He looked closer and saw a bit of it, maybe an inch or so in length, hanging off the edge. With a grimace he reached out to touch it and found it was incredibly soft, whatever it was. Like a child picking at a scab, he tried to pull it off and pain yanked through his entire left wing.

“Great,” he said. Shaking his hand and wiping it on his pant leg. “No feathers, just…whatever this is. Wonderful. Disgusting. Ugh.” Aziraphale shook his wings back out of sight. Maybe if he didn’t look at them he could pretend the horrid things didn’t exist.

“Schrodinger’s wings,” he said to himself, aiming for light and coming off bitter.

He went to his phone.

Crowley picked up on the third ring which told Aziraphale he considered not picking up at all. When the angel called his cellphone Crowley always picked up right away. For it to ring and ring and ring…Aziraphale pictured the demon staring at his phone, the little screen lit up with that ridiculous photograph he had snapped of him, and debating whether or not to answer.

It hurt more than it had any right to.

“Hello angel,” Crowley said, distinctly as Nanny Ashtoreth.

“Crowley! You’re alright.”

“’Course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I…well. I know we’ve not, uh, had any recent outings but we did, ah, have sort of a standing d-date for ton—“

“The quartet! Right! Oh shi—it completely slipped my mind.”

“Why are you talking as Mx. Ashtoreth?”

“Because I’m at the Dowling’s.”

“Whatever for?”

“They had some sort of diplomatic…whatever, I don’t know, I don’t listen when they talk. Honestly I think they just wanted to get away for a bit. So I agreed to stay on the weekend. I’d agreed to it weeks ago, I’d forgotten all about the concert. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

“Yes, of course.”

They both fell silent. Aziraphale wanted so desperately to see Crowley. He’d been looking forward to an opportunity for them to at least pretend things were the way they had been before all this antichrist business. And in a dark performance hall, there wouldn’t be much of a need for disguises, not really.

“So…” Crowley said, “I suppose enjoy yourself?”

“Oh. Um. What if…what if I came to you?”

“Here?”

“Yes I could, I could help with Warlock, you’ve had him all weekend. And perhaps once he’s in bed for the night we could…have a glass of wine?”

“Hmm,” Crowley said. He was _thinking_ about it. He had to think about whether or not he wanted to see him... “Darling—“

“Yes?”

“Don’t—not you, angel—do not put that in your mouth—I’m talking to Warlock.”

“Oh. Right. Yes, of course.”

“Would you be coming as Brother Francis?”

“Ah, no, I don’t think that’s entirely necessary. You’re already…”

“In disguise?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“I’ll have to ask to Warlock, hold on.”

“Of course.”

There was a slight shuffle as Crowley moved the phone from his mouth. Still, he could hear both of them, just barely.

“Monster!” Crowley called out.

“Yes, Nanny ‘Roth?”

“A friend of Nanny’s would like to come and visit. Is that alright with you? You can say no if it’s not.”

Aziraphale held his breath. He absolutely adored the way Crowley treated the young boy. Allowing him to voice his opinions, concerns, keeping him in mind and a part of decision making. He treated the child with the same, no, he certainly treated him with more respect than he did most adult humans. And as a result Warlock almost never acted out with him and fairly worshipped his Nanny.

“A friend of Nanny’s?”

“That’s right,” Crowley said.

“You have friends?” Warlock asked in the cruelly casual tone only five-year-olds were able to manage with pure innocence.

“Yes, monster,” Crowley answered with infinite patience. “Well…just the one.”

“Two!”

“Two?”

“I’m your friend, Nanny!”

“Ah. Thank you, darling.” Aziraphale could hear shuffling and he imagined Crowley kneeling down to hug the boy. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“I want to meet Nanny’s other friend!”

“Alright then.” Some more shuffling and a deep breath before Crowley came back to the phone, “He said it’s alright. Wait a bit before miracling yourself over here, he’ll ask how you got here so fast. He’s very clever.”

Aziraphale smiled at the pride he heard in Crowley’s voice. “Yes, I know dear. I’ll see you soon.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, and hung up.

-The Dowling’s Estate-

Aziraphale waited about an hour and so it was the early evening when he slowly made his way up the path towards the front. Normally there were all sorts of security and housekeepers and groundskeepers wandering about but it seemed strangely desolate. He heard laughter from the back yard and corrected course.

Warlock Dowling was using a stick to draw pictures in the dirt while his Nanny sat with a cup of tea and watched. Aziraphale’s breath left him at the sight of Crowley at the delicate tea table, sitting upright, (he only ever sat upright as Nanny, and it consistently boggled the angel’s mind that the demon was even _capable_ of it), one long leg crossed over the other, all of his black and red a stark contrast against the white wrought iron of the table.

“Monster?”

Warlock gave the ground a good thwap with his stick. “Yes, Nanny?”

“My friend is here.”

Warlock turned around and looked at Aziraphale with the sort of appraising eyes he’d never quite seen on the boy before. He was so used to interacting with him as Brother Francis, he had no idea how Warlock would treat him as someone new. He rather felt like Warlock was trying to decide if he was good enough to be his Nanny’s friend.

The antichrist squinted and Aziraphale wondered if he _did_ recognize him.

“Hello,” he said, stepping forward, careful not to slip into his Brother Francis voice.

“Warlock, this is Aziraphale.”

“Hello, Az—Azi…” He turned to Crowley.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said.

“Aziwa—Azira—“

“’Zira’ is fine too,” Aziraphale said. “If that’s easier.”

Warlock let out an audible sigh of relief, “Hello, Zira. I’m Warlock Dowling.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. And ‘cause you’re Nanny’s friend I won’t crush you under my boot when the legions of Hell are mine!”

He smiled.

“Oh…” Aziraphale said, “That’s…lovely?”

He looked to Crowley, a little horror stricken that Warlock would say something so blatant about the end of times to a total stranger. Crowley only smiled and sipped his tea.

Aziraphale sat in the other seat and Warlock returned to his intricate dirt drawing.

“I see you’re doing quite well on the demonic teachings.”

“Eh, not today. Not feeling particularly demonic today.”

“Oh?”

“Dowlings are gone, I gave the rest of the staff the idea they could go home for the weekend. It’s quiet.”

“Ah.”

Warlock had gone from drawing to thwapping the ground to thwapping a nearby bush.

“Monster!”

“What?”

“We. Do not. _Thwap._ The azaleas.”

“But you said all living things are fit to be—“

“Not. Nanny’s. Azaleas.”

Warlock let out a groan of theatric proportions, muttered a “make up your mind” and went back to destroying the ground.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, you don’t think that’s a bit…” Aziraphale wanted to say cruel but settled for, “on the nose? Calling him ‘monster’?”

Crowley looked at him with a tilt of his head. “What? Oh! No, that’s not why I call him that.”

“No?”

“Noooo. I got him a picture book on cryptids—“

“What on Earth is a cryptid?”

“You, technically. Anyway, he’d taken a liking to the Loch Ness monster and, I don’t know, was stuck on War _lock_ and _Loch_ Ness and, eh,” he let out a sort of defeated sigh, “it makes sense to the two of us.”

“I see.”

The next hour or so went by quickly as Warlock joined them and they spent some time drawing pictures. Many of which, if the child’s Nanny had been human and not demon, would have been quite the cause for concern. When the first drops of rain hit their papers Warlock let out a squeal.

“Let’s go inside, darling.”

“Can’t we play in the rain, Nanny?”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. He could imagine what the demon’s eyes must look like beneath the glasses.

“No,” Crowley said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel safe in the rain.”

“Oh,” Warlock said and he ran over to Crowley’s side, taking his hand. “Let’s go inside!”

Inside they played hide and seek, Avengers, which seemed to involve Warlock blasting invisible things from his hands and telling Crowley to give up the…’tessawack’, then they played with Barbies, and by nightfall they were settled at the dining room table, Aziraphale with a fresh cup of tea and Crowley painting Warlock’s nails alternating colors of purple and yellow.

“Nanny ‘Roth?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

“I don’t know, darling. I haven’t thought of it.”

“I think you should be Merida!”

“Do you?”

“Yes! Your hair would be so pretty!”

The only reason Aziraphale had any idea who they were talking about was because Warlock had several dolls of the character. He pictured Crowley’s hair in the mess of curls and smiled into his teacup.

Crowley screwed the cap onto the bottle of nail polish, “All done.”

Warlock held his hands out in front of him and surveyed his nails. “Yeeesss.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

He hopped out of his chair and ran over to the window, leaning on the sill. “It’s still raining…”

“That it is.”

“You said we could camp outside and look at the stars tonight.”

“I did say that, but I didn’t know it was going to rain.”

Warlock pouted.

“I’m sorry, monster. I have no control over the weather.”

“Why nooooot?”

It was more whine than question, and Aziraphale didn’t think Warlock actually expected an answer. But Crowley, and therefore Nanny Ashtoreth, always answered a question.

“Because if it were up to me,” Crowley said as he joined Warlock at the window, “there would never be any floods.”

Warlock let out a heavy sigh and rested his chin on the window sill. “I’m sad, Nanny.”

Crowley gently combed through the boy’s hair and said, “That’s alright, darling. That happens.”

Aziraphale watched as Warlock continued to pout, staring out the window into the dark, the steady tap of rain hitting the glass. He thought, in keeping with his job as a demon, Crowley might tell the child that he would have to toughen up. Then he thought, in keeping with being Crowley, that he might say something a little encouraging, not unlike he had with that young woman in the diner.

What Crowley said was, “We…can look at the stars inside, you know.”

Warlock practically threw himself from the window, “Really? How?”

“It’s a secret. First,” he took Warlock’s hands and blew on them gently, “we need to make sure these are dry.” And Aziraphale had no doubt the demon had used a miracle to do just that. “Now, we’re going to build a blanket fort.”

“What’s that?”

Crowley smiled, easy and wide and bright. “Only one of my absolute favorite things on Earth.”

It turned out building a fort out of sheets and blankets and, as Crowley had explicitly whispered to Aziraphale, _no_ miracles, was very time consuming. By the time they were done, the chairs in the sitting room had all been rearranged to create their walls, a clothesline repurposed and strung up to help give them a bit of a roof, and all of the couch cushions and some blankets had been moved to the floor inside the fort.

Aziraphale had to admit the end result did look quite cozy. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to help with the endeavor. Crowley’s hand had brushed against his arm several times and the demon was always the first to pull away. It hurt. The thought that he’d pushed Crowley away again hurt more than ever before. This time because standing beside him, with young Warlock fairly bouncing up and down in excitement between them, as they looked at their fort, filled him with such joy he wondered how he ever thought he’d known happiness before that moment.

“Alright, monster. It’s very late now. So we’re going to look at the stars and we’re going to have a bedtime story and then we’re going to bed.”

“Okay! Oh! I need Quacken!” And without another word Warlock darted off.

Aziraphale turned to the demon beside him, “Crowley, if that child comes back in here carrying a duck—“

“If he does,” Crowley said with a smile, “I will never stop laughing.”

Warlock returned carrying, in fact, not a duck but a small plush of what Aziraphale assumed was meant to be the Loch Ness monster. He held it up, “Quacken!”

“Qua—Oooh, _Kraken_.”

“Yeah!”

“But…that’s Nessie, Warlock.”

“No. It’s Quacken.”

“I…” he glanced at Crowley, “it’s very clearly the Loch Ness monster.”

Warlock huffed and turned to Crowley, “Nanny!”

“Yes? Are you not going to stand up for yourself?”

They huffed again, brow furrowed and glared at Aziraphale. “Doesn’t matter what she looks like, her _name_ is _Quacken _.”__

____

“Well, Zira,” Crowley said, “are you going to respect Quacken or are we going to have to ask you to leave?”

“Right, of course,” Aziraphale said, more than a little embarrassed. “Terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect…Quacken.”

Crowley turned to the boy, “Warlock? He’s apologized. What do you think of that?”

Warlock, who was still clearly upset over the whole thing, took a deep breath and said, “Apology…noted.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Noted? Not…accepted though?”

Warlock blinked and said flatly, “No.”

“Well!” Crowley said cheerfully. “Now that’s settled. Did you get a book, monster?”

“Oh!” He thrusted Quacken into Crowley’s arms, gave Aziraphale a final warning glare, and ran off once more.

“Apology noted?” asked Aziraphale.

Crowley didn’t look at him when he responded, “No one is under any obligation to accept another’s apology.”

There were times when Aziraphale was truly concerned about the things Crowley often told the boy. And then there were times when he thought everyone ought to have a Crowley in their life at some point in time to set them straight and give them a boost of much needed confidence. He watched Crowley gently fluff the small ribbon tied around Quacken’s neck. Part demon. Part archangel. Perfect in so many ways.

Warlock returned carrying not one, but two books. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide them behind his back.

“That looks like more than one, darling.”

“I couldn’t choose.”

“You’re going to have to. You’re going to have to learn to be very good at making decisions. Come on then, inside.”

Inside the fort was even more cozy than it looked outside. Warlock settled among the cushions and blankets with Aziraphale on one side and Crowley on the other. They’d left a light on in the hall and it barely lit the inside of the fort. Warlock’s wide grin slowly morphed into a lock of concern.

“Nanny ‘Roth,” he said, “we can’t see the stars in here…”

Crowley shifted so that he lay down on the cushions and pillows. “Come on, lay down.”

Warlock did, staring up at the ceiling of the fort, clutching his books in one hand and Quacken in the other.

“Now you have to close your eyes.”

Warlock shut them tight.

Crowley peered over the boy and at Aziraphale, “Both of you.”

“Really?” asked Aziraphale.

“Come _on_ , Zira!” Warlock said, squishing Quacken to his face in excitement, his feet wriggling. “Close them! Nanny ‘Roth said so.”

Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh but knew he couldn’t afford to upset the young boy any further lest he be banished from the fort. So he settled down and closed his eyes.

“Hmm,” Crowley, said, a tease in his voice, “are you peeking?”

“No!” Warlock answered.

It was quiet. Then a small elbow rammed its way into his side.

“Ow!” Aziraphale said, opening his eyes long enough to glare down at the wiggling boy and then at the grinning Crowley. “Ugh,” he shut his eyes again. “No. I’m not peeking.”

“I don’t know that I believe youuuu.”

“We aren’t, Nanny, we aren’t! Right, Zira?”

Afraid of another jab to his already tender ribs Aziraphale said, “Right. No peeking.”

“Hmm,” was the quiet response.

He could hear Crowley shift around on the cushions. He felt it when the air within the fort seemed to tighten. It felt charged. Oh, oh he was—and then he heard it, the unmistakable sound of ruffling, of _feathers_ ruffling.

“You can open them,” Crowley said quietly.

And they did, both Warlock and Aziraphale letting out a similar gasp of awe.

Crowley had outstretched one glorious wing above them. It blocked out any shred of feeble outside light and in the darkness it created, and the close quarters of the fort, the flickers of light that shimmered across the surface of his feathers looked very much like stars indeed. As his wing moved ever so slightly with his breath, the stars seemed to ebb and flow, pulsing with life.

“Woooow,” Warlock said, half muffled by Quacken.

Aziraphale glanced at the boy, a little nervous that he might he realize he was looking at a giant wing. But he realized Warlock was so focused on the ‘stars’, he likely didn’t see the edges of the feathers. And years and years later, when he looked back on it, he’d probably only remember it as a light trick.

If he, as the antichrist, looked back on it at all.

“It’s so pretty,” Warlock said.

“…you think so?” Crowley asked, his voice uncharacteristically small.

Aziraphale pushed up so he could look over Warlock and at the demon. He didn’t realize he’d taken off his glasses and was caught off guard when Crowley’s amber eyes met his.

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale said. “Truly.”

He thought of his own ruined wings and was surprised to find he wasn’t jealous. He instead felt relieved and grateful. Relieved that Crowley was spared such a punishment; the ways his Fall had scarred him were more than enough. And grateful that he was, well for lack of a better word, blessed to have this beauty in his life. He hoped he would have a chance to see it again, just the two of them, and he could tell Crowley, _show_ him, how wonderful he was.

“How’d you do it?” Warlock asked.

“Your Nanny is part magic,” Crowley answered.

“Wow.”

They lay like that for some time and Warlock’s eyes never seemed to get any less wide or full of awe. Aziraphale kept his hands folded tightly in one another so he wouldn’t give in to the urge to reach up and touch one of Crowley’s glorious feathers.

“Alright,” Crowley said, “we’re going to read a story and then go to bed, yes?”

“Yes, Nanny ‘Roth.”

“And what did you bring down?”

Warlock sat up, shuffling his books. He held up a rectangular picture book with bright colors. “Good Night, Moon.”

Aziraphale thought Crowley might put his glasses back on but he didn’t. And the young boy didn’t blink twice when he looked up at the demon’s eyes. It clearly wasn’t the first time he’d seen them.

“And?” Crowley asked.

Slowly, Warlock held up a much smaller, much more beaten up book. It was a collection of Poe’s works. “Tattle-Tale Heart?”

“ _Tell-_ Tale Heart,” Crowley said gently.

“Tell-Tale Heart,” Warlock repeated.

“Poe?” Aziraphale asked. “Really?”

Warlock turned to him with big eyes, full of glee, and whispered, “It’s under the flooooor.”

“Oh good Lord.”

Across from him, Crowley smirked.

“Oh!” Warlock said suddenly. “Or the Raven! Nevermore! Nevermore!”

“You have to pick _one_ of Poe’s.”

“Um.” Warlock thought, really thought on it. “The Raven!”

“Alright. Now you have to pick between The Raven and Good Night, Moon.”

“Awww.”

His wing twitched and Crowley said, “Listen to me very carefully, Warlock.”

“Yes, Nanny?”

“I will only read you one story tonight. Do you understand?” Crowley’s voice wasn’t harsh or admonishing, but there was something to his tone that Aziraphale hadn’t before heard him use with the child that evening.

Warlock nodded.

There was something unspoken between the two of them. Aziraphale thought for sure any other child might have had a tantrum or cried or reacted in some, well, normal way. But Warlock merely held tightly onto Quacken, rested his chin on her head, and thought.

The three of them sat in silence for some time.

The flickers of light in Crowley’s wing danced across the boy’s features until finally he sat up suddenly, a grin on his face.

Crowley, in turn, tried to hide a smirk of his own. “And so?”

“What if… _you_ read me one, and only one, like you said, and… _Zira_ reads the other!”

Ooohh.

“Clever monster,” Crowley said, his voice positively dripping with pride. “You’ll have to ask Zira.”

Warlock rounded on him and Aziraphale was quick to say, “Yes. Yes I can do that.”

“Yeeesss,” Warlock said, shaking Quacken. “Zira reads Good Night Moon and Nanny ‘Roth reads The Raven!”

“And which do you want first?” asked Crowley.

“Good Night, Moon!”

“Alright. I’m going to have to put the stars away for now.”

“Awww. Okaaay…”

“Close your eyes, darling.”

Aziraphale watched as Warlock shut his eyes tight and Crowley slowly folded his wing in and tucked it safely into another plane. He winced a bit, rolling out his shoulder and arm, no doubt sore from holding it in one position for so long. Then he opened his eyes and looked over Warlock at Aziraphale and everything in his eyes nearly screamed ‘What are we doing?”

The angel wanted to say he was sorry for pushing him away, _again_. Sorry for not kissing him that New Year’s when he had the chance, for not taking his hand every other time he could have, he wanted to say he was sorry for being so afraid. But all he managed was a small smile and he hoped a fraction of what he felt showed through.

Crowley took a small breath and said, “All done.”

Warlock opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling of their fort, a mish-mash of different colored sheets and clothespins, and smiled as though he could still see the stars.

“Story time!” he cried out, and flopped backward onto his pillows.

Aziraphale settled in and opened the book. “’In the great green room,” he read, “there was a telephone, and a red balloon…”

The antichrist remained quiet and still the whole time, shifting once only to move a little closer to his Nanny.

“’Goodnight stars,” Aziraphale read, “goodnight air. Good night noises everywhere.” He closed the book with a quiet ‘hmm’. He had never actually read it before and was struck by how it left him feeling a little sad.

“Nanny ‘Roth? Why are you crying?”

“What?” Aziraphale said, his head snapping up.

Warlock sat up and pressed his hands to Crowley’s face, smoothing his cheeks. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m alright, darling.”

“Why are you sad?”

“Did you know,” Crowley said slowly, “that the moon only ever shows one side of itself to us?”

“No.”

“It’s true. There’s an entire side of the moon that we never see. It’s always facing the other way.”

“Why?”

“That’s how it was made.”

“Why?”

“Because…” he swallowed, “that’s how some people are. There’s parts of them they share with others and parts they hide.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, shame settling in over him. He thought of his wings, the visit from Gabriel, all the little things he’d been keeping from Crowley.

“But you’re magic, Nanny! Have you seen the hidden side?”

“I have.”

Warlock let out a little gasp and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “What’s there?”

“There’s a secret written into the surface of the moon where no can see.”

“What’s it say?”

“If I told you then it wouldn’t be a secret.”

“Awww!”

“Is it time for The Raven?”

“Yes! Nevermore! Nevermore!”

“Settle down.”

Warlock did as he was told, holding Quacken to his face, pulling a blanket up over him as he burrowed into his Nanny’s side. The book lay forgotten beside him. Crowley wrapped an arm around Warlock, holding him close, looking up at the ceiling of the fort.

“’Once upon a midnight dreary,’” Crowley recited, and Aziraphale’s breathe caught, “’while I pondered, weak and weary…”

At the end of every stanza Crowley paused long enough for Warlock to lift his face from Quacken and quietly echo back, “Nothing mooore” until the raven made its appearance and then he would squeak out “Nevermore!” Even so, he only made it to perhaps the third or fourth “nevermore” before he quietly dozed off. Aziraphale had no doubt Crowley knew the boy was asleep, but he continued reciting the poem just the same. When he finished, the silence lingered, heavy and painful.

Then Crowley snapped his fingers and the fort disappeared. He slithered up, there was no other way to describe how he went from laying flat to sitting to standing and holding an unconscious five-year-old in the span of a few seconds, and looked down at Aziraphale.

“You can put on a kettle if you like, angel.”

“Right. Of course.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley carry Warlock off to his room. He sat in the middle of the sitting room feeling suddenly very alone and exposed and quite sad. Eventually he managed to get up and make his way to the kitchen, thinking of everything he’d been a witness to that night. The demon was nothing short of amazing with the young boy. He’d seen them on the grounds when he was Brother Francis, heard them interacting and playing, often heard some utterly demonic notion Crowley was planting in the boy’s head. But…on their own? Crowley had said he wasn’t feeling particularly demonic and so was this what he was capable of when left to his own, truly his own, devices? Aziraphale had never, in the six thousand years he’d known him, heard Crowley use so many terms of endearment. Not even to this plants, whom he adored. But with Warlock he was kind and encouraging and playful. He smiled and he laughed and was so open. He answered every question, every one, truthfully. He challenged the boy to really think, not unlike he challenged Aziraphale so many centuries ago. Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if not for the apocalypse, for their sides, if there were a version of the world with just Crowley and the young Warlock left to their own devices…well, he rather thought they’d be alright.

Taking a seat at the center island, Aziraphale clutched his cup of tea. Crowley was so free with showing his affection, in words, in little touches, in soft smiles… he wanted to go back. To go back to how things had been. The direction it’d been going in. He wanted Crowley, he knew that, he couldn’t even pretend to deny it, not when the evidence of his wants sat in the form of ash in a small, repurposed vase, in a nondescript box shoved far under his desk.

He wanted Crowley, not just carnally but the softness the demon was so clearly capable of. He wanted him to look at him the way he had so many years ago in a dark bookshop while bombs went off in the distance. The way he had begun to after a trip to a diner in America. He couldn’t help but wonder where they could be if not for Armageddon. If there wasn’t a purple-eyed archangel Hell-bent on smiting him. If Aziraphale had bloody kissed him when he was warm in his lap, fingers soft in his hair, the lanky awkwardness of his body somehow soft and pliable under Aziraphale’s touch. The angel’s eyes fluttered closed as he remembered the way Crowley’s breath had hitched when he squeezed his waist.

The sound of Crowley’s heels snapped his eyes open just as the demon entered the kitchen. He thought he should ask if Warlock was all tucked away. Or perhaps if Crowley had wanted some tea; he had been so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t think to make him a cup. He thought he should say _something_ to fill the air and occupy his mind because otherwise he was afraid Crowley would see on his face just what he’d been thinking and imagining.

But the demon didn’t pay him much mind. He began unbuttoning his waistcoat as he entered the room—which did not help Aziraphale’s errant thoughts _at all_. Crowley shrugged off the garment, laying it gently on the countertop as a glass of wine appeared. He lifted it, took a sip, and set it back down. Then his fingers went up to his hair. They moved with slow and careful grace, beginning the work of taking the pins out.

Every moment spoke of a quiet ritual he’d done time and time again, night after night. He didn’t have to use real pins. And he didn’t have to remove them manually either. He chose to. Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s fingers methodically sought out each pin, never grabbing the wrong one, never tugging or catching his hair, as he gently slid the pin loose and set it on the counter. He watched as each loosened curl was combed free before moving on to the next. He felt as though he’d wandered in on someone deep in prayer, in the middle of worship.

His eyes wandered.

Wandered to Crowley’s face. How relaxed his eyes looked. Half-lidded, sleepy and content. They’d been so caught up playing with Warlock he hadn’t bothered to miracle away his 5 o’clock shadow, the stubble light on his face. His lipstick, as always, was perfect. Aziraphale put his hands under the table, onto his knees. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it had felt like to comb out Crowley’s hair. He wanted so desperately to do it again. To see the demon smile at him and look at him with those eyes. He thought of feeling his stubble beneath his palm. Of trailing a thumb to those perfectly tinted lips.

His hands clenched.

He shouldn’t be thinking that. He’d received his warning for his wants, his transgressions, loud and clear.

Still…

His gaze continued to wander.

Wandered down the length of the demon. Took in the way the fabric of his blouse shifted with his subtle movements. Aziraphale may not have changed his preferred attire in decades but he knew quality when he saw it. He could tell from where he sat how soft it was. How soft it would feel between his fingers. How soft it must be against the demon’s skin. His skirt was straight and sleek and honestly Aziraphale didn’t know how the demon kept up with a child in it (or those heels, God those heels), but he did.

From his shoulder blades to the flat expanse of his chest, those long legs that never seemed to know where to be or how, to the point of his stilettos, the demon was all angles and edges. Sharp, yes, but not like a knife. More like…paper. He could be soft, he often was, but he could easily be dangerous.

And Aziraphale wondered the perfect angle needed in order to cut himself on those edges.

Crowley set the final few pins down, running his hand fully through his hair with a quiet murmur that threatened to discorporate Aziraphale. He tousled his shoulder length hair a bit, pulling most of it to one side in a messy part. Then he turned, reaching for his glass, and looked at Aziraphale as though he’d almost forgotten he was there. Which may have hurt, had he been anything less than enraptured by watching Crowley as he was clearly deep in his own private, comfortable world.

“Hungry, angel?”

Aziraphale swallowed, his mouth dry, “Ravenous.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, and went to the cabinets.

“But, I,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying to clear his thoughts, “I doubt there’s anywhere, at this hour that—“

“Waffles alright?”

“I…yes? Wait, you can cook?”

“It won’t be to your standards, I’m sure, but yes, I can cook. Just some of Warlock’s favorites.”

“Oh. Yes of course. That makes sense.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley confidently moved about the kitchen, gathering various items. Bowls, measuring spoons and all manner of ingredients. He sipped his wine. Plugged in some device and set about…well… _cooking._

He could have miracled a plate of waffles, the most delicious plate either one of them could imagine up, right on the table with a snap. And instead he was whisking? Beating? Doing something to a couple of eggs in a bowl.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Cooking?”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale shifted in his seat in the silence. He knew he could ask ‘why’ but he’d never had to ask Crowley to expand on his thoughts before…

“It’s,” Crowley said and Aziraphale had to stifle a gasp of joy that the demon had decided to accept his attempt at conversation. “It’s…comforting. It makes me feel more present, more here. I like the steps. It’s not unlike making stars. Well, all forms of art are like weaving stars but cooking…with the need for precise measurements and timing it’s…yeah. I like it.”

“That’s wonderful my dear.”

“Couldn’t bribe me with the most exotic plant in the world to put any of this in my mouth but...making it for other people is alright, I guess.”

He poured some of his mixture into the device he’d plugged in and shut the lid. Aziraphale really didn’t think that looked quite right, pouring all that runny stuff into that machine, but he trusted that Crowley knew what he was doing.

He watched the demon grab his wine glass and go to the fridge, where he stood, one hand on the open door, the other holding his glass to his chest, as he frowned.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Thought we had strawberries.”

It took Aziraphale much longer than he cared to admit to realize that Crowley meant ‘we’ as in the Dowlings and not ‘we’ as in the two of them. Because this wasn’t their kitchen or their home. They didn’t have anything like that all. And Aziraphale found he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more.

“That’s alright,” he said.

“I know how much you like fresh strawberries with your pastries, angel.”

“Yes, well—“

“Do waffles count as a pastry?”

“I don’t think so…”

“No, I s’pose not.” Crowley’s fingers drummed along the fridge door. The frown didn’t leave his face.

Aziraphale waited.

“A breakfast food, then?” Crowley finally said.

Aziraphale smiled and didn’t answer. He knew the demon wasn’t done yet.

“They look like cake… they look like cakes more than pancakes look like cakes and pancakes are called pan _cakes_ and _they_ look like floppy toast. So waffles should be pancakes and pancakes should be floppy toast and oh shit I forgot about French toast. That’s the true floppy toast, inn’it?”

“Dear?”

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to look at him.

“The fridge is still open,” Aziraphale said gently.

Crowley looked back at the fridge as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh. Right. What was I talking about?”

“Floppy toast.”

“Oh the waffles!” He closed the door and made his way back to the little machine.

Aziraphale watched Crowley and the only word stuck in his mind, skipping like some poor ruined record, was _want want want want._ He wanted this, whatever this was, whatever led to them in a kitchen while Crowley cooked, cooked for _him_ , and tumbling conversations and wine, he wanted it so bad it hurt. He wanted it so bad he’d already lost his wings for it and despite his fear of Falling he was starting think he could handle even that if Crowley was still there at the end of it all.

They just had to survive…the end of it all.

The waffles were, in fact, very good. Crowley was right in that they weren’t as fancy as some he’d had in various restaurants over the years but that didn’t matter because none of those had been made by his demon.

He ate quietly, while Crowley sat across from him and watched.

“Denarius for your thoughts,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley smirked and Aziraphale felt lighter at the sight.

“I’m thinking,” Crowley said, “that this is nice.”

“I—“

_“NANNY!”_

Both angel and demon jerked up at the scream.

“Shit,” Crowley said, making his way out the kitchen.

“What is it, what’s—“

“No, no stay here, he gets nightmares, I’ve got it.”

_“NANNY!”_

“I’m coming, monster!”

Aziraphale listened to the sound of Crowley’s heels as he ran off to Warlock’s room. “Oh,” he said, “nightmares. Oh the poor dear.” He thought perhaps he should do something to help. Maybe a cup of warm milk? Or chamomile? No children didn’t really like chamomile tea did they? But Warlock wasn’t like most children. “Oh just pick one,” he told himself and miracled a cup. It was warm milk and he decided that would have to do as he made his way to the boy’s room.

There hadn’t been any more outcries since Crowley had run off and so Aziraphale kept his steps light as he crept down the hall, just in case the young Warlock had already fallen back asleep. The door to the room was half open and Aziraphale peeked in. Crowley sat on the floor beside Warlock’s bed, his back to the door, an arm over the boy. Warlock was crushing Quacken to his face, his voice muffled when he asked, “Promise?”

“I promise, Warlock. I will keep you safe and crush all of your enemies. Until you are strong enough to crush them yourself, no one will ever harm you.”

Aziraphale ducked back into the hall; he wasn’t needed here. Him and his cup of warm milk. Not when Warlock had Crowley protecting him. That was alright.

“Your hair is really, really, really really really pretty down, Nanny.”

The angel smiled as he was inclined to agree.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Will you sing me a lullaby?”

“Of course.”

That was the angel’s cue to leave. He’d heard Warlock repeat one of the “lullabies” Crowley had apparently sang to him, he had no interest in hearing that again. But then Warlock made a request that stopped Aziraphale in his tracks.

“Can you,” he said, “can you sing one,” he lowered his voice and whispered, “about the secret on the Moon?”

“Oh?” said Crowley.

“Don’t have to tell it! Just…about it?”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I think I can do that.”

Aziraphale clutched the cup.

“I may get along,” Crowley started, “when love is gone.”

The angel nearly dropped the cup.

“Still, you made your mark, here in my heart.”

Oh, God.

“One day, I’ll fly away  
Leave your love to yesterday  
What more can your love do for me?  
When will love be through with me?”

He paused and in the silence all Aziraphale heard was the pounding of his own heart. He didn’t think Crowley knew he was in the hall. Or maybe he did. The angel couldn't decide which option hurt less, or more.

“I follow the night  
Can’t stand the light  
When will I begin  
To live again?  
One day, I’ll fly away”

Crowley repeated the chorus and Aziraphale miracled the cup away before his shaking hands spilled it all over the floor.

“When will love be through with me?  
Why live life, from dream to dream  
And—“ Crowley’s voice hitched, “dread the day when dreaming ends?”

Aziraphale slapped a hand to his mouth, just barely miracling himself back to the Bookshop before a sob broke through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Some of y'all might recognize the song he sings as "One Day I"ll Fly Away" from Moulin Rouge. But the original was sang by Randy Crawford back in 1980 . The version in Moulin Rouge has slightly different lyrics, the opening completely omitted. I imagine, since Moulin Rouge came out in 2001, that Crowley both heard the original back in 1980 (right on the edge of his MacArthur Park obsession) and then at some point the remake. So the version HE sings is a bastardization of the two, the original lyrics, to the beat of the Moulin Rouge version.
> 
> Hope that made sense lol
> 
> Original : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH2rgPqi8Ag&list=RDtH2rgPqi8Ag&start_radio=1  
> Moulin Rouge: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrjT7V1nDZc


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS!!  
> I just wanted to thank everyone for their patience! I needed to take some time to go over my timeline, review what parts of the canon I'm keeping, cutting or tweaking to suit this story, which took longer than I thought it would. And honestly, then it was my birthday so that ate an entire weekend lol. I can't believe it's been as long as it has since I updated and again, thank you so much for your patience and sticking through with me! 
> 
> The good news is I've finalized the rest of the time line and I can say, after this chapter, there are 10 more. If all goes according to plan, we'll finish right at the end of the year, which feels perfect in so many ways. I do work in retail and with the holiday season coming up on us...it's going to be Hell, but I'll do my best to try and keep to the schedule I've planned out!
> 
> (The "bad" news is there's gonna be a lot more angst and hurt coming, oops!)
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: The characters discuss a play in which it's heavily insinuated a child has died. There's no details on what happened or how or why, it's entirely speculation on the character's part.

-The Ethel Barrymore Theatre, New York, 2013 –

Crowley managed, he still couldn’t quite believe it, to convince Aziraphale to go see a play with him without disguises. It helped that the play was in America and Warlock was very much not; he was able to argue that their sides would likely be focusing on the antichrist too much to pay any attention to either of them.

It helped further that Shakespeare had always been a middle ground for them.

They had always found it fascinating, all the different interpretations and versions of the bard’s work that came forward over the centuries. They’d seen as many as they were able, always up until the wee hours of the morning discussing the choices made, which sections of the text were inevitably cut and the like. They would often disagree on _some_ point, whether it was casting choices, costume design, the set, even, once, the layout and font of the program.

So, when Crowley had offered to take him to a one-man rendition of Macbeth, he knew he wouldn’t have to argue too hard for it.

“A one-man Macbeth?” Aziraphale had asked dubiously. Although the shine in his eyes betrayed his already building curiosity. They sat on the upper level of a bus, towards the back, one of their many ridiculous rendezvous points. “I’m not sure how Macbeth would translate into some kind of…morbid comedy.”

“First of all,” Crowley had countered, “’morbid comedy’ is Will’s entire _brand_. Second of all, I never said it was a comedy. Only that it was one-man.”

Azirpahale had pursed his lips and worried his hands, looking nervously out the window. Finally he gave in, “Well…it _is_ Shakespeare. You know I can never say no to Shakespeare…”

Crowley did, and he grinned.

Now, as they sat in the theatre, Aziraphale beside him, those silly reading glasses perched on his nose while he read over the program for possibly the fifteenth time, that grin threatened to return.

The music was low, atmospheric, subtly unsettling without verging into being outright horrific. Crowley had already seen it and now he studied the stage and all the elements he knew would come into play later. He looked over at Aziraphale, who had finally finished his inspection of the program and moved on to the stage. He wondered what parts stuck out to the angel right away. What he thought might be important later. Crowley wondered if how he felt right then was how Aziraphale felt four hundred years ago when they watched Midsummer together for the first time. Oh, he’d noticed the angel sneaking sly glances at him throughout the play. Outright staring at him for entire scenes. That was the beginning of their Arrangement but also, and more importantly, the beginning of their friendship.

“He’s…” Aziraphale said, “a psychiatric patient, yes?”

“What, you don’t have the program memorized yet?”

He gave him that sideways glance Crowley had come to love. “Just being sure I understand the, you know—“

“Given circumstances?”

“Yes! That.” He looked around, “It’s interesting. I wonder if they’re also going to attempt to modernize the text?” He paused before saying, “No, don’t tell me.” As if Crowley had any intention to. “I hope they don’t,” Aziraphale continued. “I think I rather like the…hmm. Not juxtaposition, that’s not quite the right word…”

“Dissonance?”

“Yes, I think that works. There’s a sort of dissonance but it’s not at all unpleasant. Like two contrasting flavors. I like the modern settings with the classic text.”

“And yet…” Crowley said, leaning towards the angel, a tease in his voice.

“We are not talking about it.”

“You didn’t watch more than the first ten minutes!”

“I will….eventually. It’s hardly my fault if they wasted time repeating the prologue twice with all that flash and-and noise. It simply wasn’t my cup of tea.”

Crowley snorted.

“Anyway. This? This is…this hospital setting…” He drummed his fingers on his legs. “You know I’m not very fond of stories that use hospitals and psychiatric wards and the like as some sort of-of freak show. Demonizing the mentally ill.”

“And you know I’m not either.”

“This _music_ ,” said Aziraphale, “it’s very unsettling.”

“We don’t have to stay if you aren’t interested.”

“Oh no, I _am_. I’m _fascinated_ , dear boy. And I trust you.”

Crowley gritted his teeth against the irony of the angel’s words. He trusted him, sure, except with telling him what had happened to rekindle this fear in him. Except with figuring things out together.

Except with his heart.

Thankfully, before the demon could say something stupid, the lights dimmed.

He watched as the actor, exhausted, a distant look in his eyes, was gently looked after by two doctors. The silence was heavy after the low and haunting tones of the preshow music. The tension it created was impressive considering the show was less than a minute underway. And yet everyone in the audience seemed to be holding their breaths.

The doctors moved to take a small brown paper bag from him and there was some resistance at that. They let it be. Finally, as the two doctors began to leave, exiting up a small set of stairs stage right, the actor looked up and said, “When shall we three meet again?”

The doctors exchanged a look and then exited.

The play went on and Crowley continuously snuck glances at Aziraphale, whose eyes were wide with fascination. He wasn’t sure the angel had remembered to blink. During the intermission they each got a glass of wine and Crowley listened as Aziraphale shared his thoughts on what had happened thus far, the way the staging was being handled as the actor switched between every role in the cast. He was reserving his final thoughts for once they’d finished the show but Crowley could tell this was going to be one they discussed for a long, long time.

Or at least, until the world ended.

As they neared the play’s final moments, Crowley could barely contain his excitement. He knew, he _knew_ , Aziraphale was going to lose it, well as much as the angel was possible of ‘losing it’ and he couldn’t wait.  
  
Macbeth had just been murdered and the doctors once again entered the stage, slowly coming down their small set of steps. They weren’t seen at all during the rest of the play save for a brief moment where a light went up in a small observation box and they watched the scene play out before it went dark again. They helped get the actor settled. Cleaned him up. He was exhausted, drained, he looked haunted, hunted. They half reached for the paper bag, its contents revealed earlier, and again, he pulled away. The action made far more sense now and Crowley could hear Aziraphale let out a small sound of sadness.

The doctors continued in silence. It was deafening coming after the violent struggles of Macbeths’ final moments. Finished with their work, the doctors retreated back towards their stairs when the actor’s head slowly lifted and he said, “When shall we three meet again?” and the theatre was plunged into darkness.

When that happened Aziraphale let out a gasp and his hand reached out, grasping Crowley’s arm. The demon was torn between the bubble of giddiness that welled up within him at Aziraphale’s touch after the past few years of his continued distance and the smug satisfaction that the angel reacted just how he knew he would.

The house lights came up and the various players came out for their bows to a predominantly standing ovation. The angel and demon had had many conversations over the centuries on what they each felt merited one. As with many other things, they tended to disagree on some points. This play wasn’t one of them.

It wasn’t until they were standing on the street outside the theatre that Aziraphale managed to finally say something and it was simply, “That poor man.”

“Told you it wasn’t a comedy,” Crowley said.

“He’s just repeating it over and over,” Aziraphale said as they made their way down the street, no real destination in mind. “It’s just this, this loop of misery.”

Crowley thought he knew a thing or two about that but chose not to say anything.

“I wonder what started it. I think, well, that was a child’s sweater in that bag and clearly it’s representative but I do wonder if there was ever a child involved in this horrible loop of his or if it was always the article of clothing? How many times as he lived this? Did the character of the child get caught up on the third go through, the fourth, the fifth? I imagine he must’ve gone through this entire loop at least twice before he was institutionalized… Hmm.”

“For my money,” Crowley said, “the death of whomever owned that sweater is what _started_ it all.”

“Oh, you really think so?”

“I do. All of this is a means of coping. Framing the event in a way he can almost understand it. But his inability to accept it is what keeps him locked in the loop.”

“And so whenever the doctors try to take the bag…”

“To see if he’s quite literally ready to let go.”

“Oh that _is_ an interesting take, I do like that!”

“Come on,” Crowley said, “let’s talk some more over dinner, I really want to know your thoughts on the three witches.”

“Oh yes!” Aziraphale said. “That was very clever and you know I’m not a huge fan of spectacle or over-the-top technical,” he waved a hand, “what have you. But _that_ , that was—“ someone bumped into him roughly, almost forcing Aziraphale to do a complete 180. The angel dusted his arm with a huff. He turned back to Crowley and seemed to take in for the first time just how crowded the streets were.

He looked around nervously and Crowley could see the worry settle over his features.

No, no no no they were doing so well!

“Angel?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“It’s just, well there’s so many faces in the crowd and—“

“We’re fine. They’re not going to be paying attention all the way over here.”

“I just want to be smart about this, Crowley.”

He groaned, burying his fingers in his hair, making a mess of the bun he’d pulled it into.

“You once said your lot doesn’t send rude notes.”

“I—angel, that was,” he leaned in, whispering fiercely, _“two hundred twenty years ago!”_

“Yes, but—“

“No! There’s no—don’t you think if they were paying attention, if either side was paying attention, if _God_ was, They would have done something by now?”

Aziraphale avoided meeting Crowley’s gaze, rolling his shoulders a bit. “I do,” he said quietly.

Crowley took a few steps away, trying to keep from just screaming in the middle of the street. He was tempted to stop time and shake Aziraphale until he came to his senses or until Crowley passed out from exhaustion. He was starting to think the latter would come first.

He turned around, “Look at me.”

Aziraphale did. Neither moved to close the few feet of distance between them.

“What if…I don’t want to hide anymore?”

“Crowley, we have to be care—“

He slid off his glasses.

“Crowley!”

The street bustled around them. People going back and forth. Passing between them. But Crowley kept his gaze locked on Aziraphale. When there was a lull he took two steps forward, standing as close to the angel as he dared.

“ _You_ once said…that you love my eyes.”

“I…Crowley,” he nearly whimpered. “I do. You know I do. This is not about that! It’s—“

“It’s what? About Armageddon? About Heaven? Hell? About me being a demon and you being an angel?”

“It’s not—you—we just can’t be seen together. Our sides—“

“Our _sides_. Our _sidesssss,_ ” Crowley hissed.

“Dearest…please,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley scoffed.

“Just…just until the apocalypse is dealt with. Until we can settle that and then—“

“And then what, angel? We go back to normal?”

“I want to. I want to so bad Crowley, please.”

But what was ‘normal’ for them? Was normal going back to pretending there was nothing happening between them? Was normal brushed fingers and sly smiles and unspoken desires so strong they were being screamed behind half-lidded eyes? Was normal clinging desperately to the memory of a night thirteen years ago that was so perfect he had every second of it, from the moment he stumbled drunk into the bookshop to the near kiss to the soil on his hands and the stars above his head, every blessed second etched into his veins so that it was all that cycled through him, it was all that kept his wretched heart going?

Was that normal?

Crowley swallowed. “Just until the apocalypse is dealt with, yeah?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Alright.”

“Oh thank you, Crowley. I knew you would see—“

He slipped on his glasses, “See you in six years, angel.”

“What?”

He turned and walked away.

“Crowley! Crowley wait, please!”

He forced himself to ignore the way Aziraphale’s voice cracked as he disappeared into the crowds of people before miracling himself back to his flat where he arrived in a heap of coils and scales. Crowley slithered up and through the roots of his larger plants. Curled over them and buried his face into the dirt, breathing it in. He could feel their leaves shift and lean in, just a bit, just enough to shelter him, to ask what happened, to tell him it’d be okay. Crowley shook with the effort of not turning back into an even remotely human shape. He wouldn’t do it. He refused. He would lay there and breathe in the smell of fresh soil and green earth and creatures loved and he would do it as a snake. Because snakes can’t cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .
> 
> The play Crowley teases Aziraphale about is Romeo + Juliet.
> 
> The play they see is Alan Cumming's Macbeth. And yeah, I can count the number of Broadway shows I've seen on one hand so I don't have a large basis of comparison, but it's honestly one of the best plays I've ever seen. I did see it just the once, 6-something years ago so bear with me if I got anything wrong.
> 
> For funsies, here's a song that makes me think of Crowley, specifically the version of him I've developed for this fic. It's long (and there's a radio edit if you prefer to look that up, but I like this version.) The final verse just...OOF, right in the feels.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGG5K1XLgkA
> 
> Fun fact: while I was writing the scene in the street Adele's Lovesong came on and I just had to stop everything and wallow in feels T_T
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! I look forward to your comments!


	27. Chapter 27

-The Bookshop, 2018-

  
Aziraphale found the note at 3 am on a Sunday; he had no idea how long it’d been sitting there, tucked gently under his favorite tin of cocoa.  
  
The last five years seemed to be a bit of a blur. Crowley stayed on as the nanny for another year, every interaction with Aziraphale never more than was strictly necessary for the roles they were playing—not by the angel’s choice. Every attempt to talk with Crowley about how he was doing, how the plants were, how he thought Warlock was progressing, was met with silence, a one-word monosyllabic answer if he was lucky. Crowley wore the mask of Mx. Ashtoreth the way he wore everything else: fashionably, confidently, and so skin tight you didn’t know where one began and the other ended.  
  
And Mx. Ashtoreth had no time and even less of a care for any of the Dowling staff, the hapless Gardner included.  
  
When Warlock started school, he had no need for a nanny and so they were let go. Aziraphale had been there for their final day. Mrs. Dowling gave them a card and some flowers in a hideous vase. Every bit of it a terrible gift. Aziraphale knew Crowley hated cut flowers. Hated the whole concept of bouquets. Wouldn’t read the card. And the vase was _truly hideous_. But Mx. Ashtoreth had offered a tight-lipped smile and accepted the gifts. There had been talk of a small going-away party but that was quickly squashed in favor of Mx. Ashtoreth simply spending the day with Warlock.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t dare interrupt their time together, but he did sneak glances from various parts of the garden. He saw them laugh and draw and play hide and seek and read and sit and talk. Then the sun started to go down and Warlock grew withdrawn and quiet. When it was clear they couldn’t put it off any longer, the young boy asked his nanny to stay put and he ran back into the house. Aziraphale watched as Crowley paced the small outdoor seating area, wringing his hands together. Watched as he stopped a moment, one hand on the back of a chair, the other pressed firmly to his diaphragm as though if he let go of either he’d fall apart, disintegrate. He watched as the demon clenched his teeth, tilted his head back to the sky and took deep, wavering breaths he didn’t need.  
  
Then Warlock returned and with a deep breath Mx. Ashtoreth had both hands folded neatly in front of them and were the picture of poise and grace. The young boy held out a small box, a jewelry box it looked like. Crowley squatted in front of him and opened it and pulled out a long, thin silver chain. It was only a chain, no pendant, no precious stones, just a chain, a series of interlocking loops. Aziraphale watched as Warlock seemed to be explaining what it meant, his reasoning behind the gift. He watched as Warlock took the chain and gently balled it up, holding it to the sky and tilting it this way and that so it caught the light and shimmered. Watched as something in Crowley cracked and he put a hand to his mouth and pressed his forehead to his knees.  
  
Aziraphale thought he could see the ghost of Crowley’s wings ready to envelop him.  
  
Warlock hugged him and after a moment Crowley returned it. When they pulled away Warlock wiped at his eyes and Crowley removed his glasses to do the same. Then he retrieved a small box from the inside of his waistcoat, one he no doubt miracled into existence. When Warlock opened it he pulled out a small silver chain, although his _did_ have a pendant on it—a curling, twining snake. Crowley tucked back his hair, turning his head to reveal his tattoo, identical to the pendant on the necklace, and the young boy promptly lost his mind. Clearly excited and fascinated that his nanny had a tattoo while also shocked that they’d manage to keep it a secret from him for, well essentially his entire life.  
  
Aziraphale watched as Crowley bent his head so that Warlock could put the chain on him. As Crowley clasped the necklace around Warlock’s neck. Watched as Crowley pulled out his cellphone and took a picture of the two of them together. And then another when Warlock wrapped his arms around the demon’s neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek, Crowley’s smile wide and bright and perfect. They hugged one more time and when they pulled away again it was Crowley who wiped away Warlock’s tears with a gentle swipe of his thumb. He kissed the boy on his forehead and stood up.  
  
Chin raised. Back straight.  
  
Warlock did the same.  
  
Mx. Ashtoreth’s face softened. They said something and Aziraphale didn’t need to wonder what it was; he had imagined the demon’s mouth forming those three words enough times to know, to be able to practically hear the ghost of it ringing in his ears. Then Mx. Ashtoreth took another deep breath, turned, and walked away. Just as they turned the corner to head towards the front of the house, Warlock took half a step forward, hands out, but then he stopped himself. He stopped, clenched his little fists at his sides, and raised his chin. A deep breath. Then another. He tucked his necklace under his shirt, placing both hands against his chest where the pendant must lay, and then quietly began cleaning up his toys.  
  
A few weeks into the start of school Aziraphale-as-Brother Francis heard mention of a tutor, a Ms. Helmer. He’d yet to meet the woman, only being there a few days a week, and she was apparently only there a couple hours in the afternoon, but he’d heard the staff talk of her and he had…suspicions.  
  
Sure enough, one afternoon, he’d gone into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and found Warlock sitting at the center island with a woman sitting beside him as they looked over a textbook. She had red hair that she wore in a ponytail, long painted nails, and a pair of distinct sunglasses.  
  
So he still wore them.  
  
Mrs. Dowling came in from the living room and stopped short when she saw Aziraphale. “Oh, I don’t believe you two have met!”  
  
At that Crowley looked up at Mrs. Dowling and then over at Aziraphale. Warlock didn’t look away from his text.  
  
“Brother Francis,” Mrs. Dowling continued, “this is Warlock’s tutor, Ms. Nora Helmer.”  
  
Nora. Nora Helmer, why did that name sound so…oh.  
  
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Helmer,” Aziraphale said. And then, after a moment, he added, “So sorry to hear about the split with your husband.”  
  
A slow and sly smirk bloomed on Crowley’s face. “Don’t be,” he said. “I’m doing just fine.”  
  
Aziraphale swallowed. Tried not to feel hurt. He didn’t have the right, really. He was the one who had pushed Crowley away. Again. How many times was this now? Crowley had earned a bit of snark, a bit of bite. A bit of cruelty even.  
  
And so for the next few years Brother Francis tended to the garden, poorly, it was mostly a lot of miracles and him reading in the shade while he tried not to sneak glances at the tutor. Sometimes they did their lessons outside, sometimes in the kitchen, once or twice laying in the grass, not a textbook in sight, while Ms. Helmer pointed to the clouds drifting by and Warlock laughed.  
  
One afternoon Aziraphale saw Warlock motion for his tutor to lean in closer before he reached into his shirt and pulled out a thin silver chain, cradling the pendant at the end like it was the most precious thing in the world. He showed it to his tutor, smiling widely, if not a little sadly, and told her all about it.  
  
And so for the next few years Aziraphale came home to a stiflingly silent bookshop. He went from avoiding the back room to practically living there. He scowled at the box full of ash under his desk. And he sat on Crowley’s couch. Laid down on it. Held the tartan thrown to him. He could still smell a faint hint of brimstone. And he would miracle himself a book or tea or cocoa.  
  
It was 3am on a Sunday when he sat up on the couch and realized he had a crick in his neck and decided he ought to get up and stretch a bit. He made his way to the kitchen to make some cocoa the normal way and that was when he saw the note tucked under the tin. He had no idea how long it had been there. It’d been…some time since he’d done anything without the snap of his fingers. He lifted it, gingerly, and unfolded it.  
  
The handwriting was Crowley’s. Thin and sprawling, like him. It had a date, a time, a place, and underneath that:  
  
__

_Few days before all Hell breaks loose. Or doesn’t. Hopefully.  
  
Should burn this or something after you read it.  
  
Doubt anyone would find it though in this mess. Be surprised if you do.  
  
-Anthony_

He wondered when Crowley had snuck in to hide the note. He didn’t just miracle it there, he referenced the mess, and it _was_ a mess. He’d been in the bookshop at some point. Had he sat on the couch? Wrapped the throw around his shoulders the way he did when he was extra-tipsy and extra-silly? Could he have caught him in the act, sitting at his desk, scribbling the note out? No. Crowley had the ability to know where Aziraphale was at any given point in time. Which meant he knew where he wasn’t. If he had wanted even the chance of running into him, he could have arranged it. Aziraphale didn’t see him because he didn’t want to be seen. Because the six years weren’t up yet.

He looked down at the paper.

It was six months away.

He let out a strangled little laugh.

Six millenia. Six years. Six months. Soon they would be days away from Armageddon. Where would he be when it was six hours out? Six minutes? Six seconds? How many times could he kiss Crowley in the six seconds before the world ended? How many times could he apologize for being an idiot? How many times could he tell him he loved him?

And if they failed? If the war was going to come? Would Hell suck Crowley down to its depths? How would Aziraphale follow? How would Aziraphale save him? He stared down at the date, six months, and let out another mirthless laugh. All he could think of was Persephone and her handful of pomegranate seeds.

But no, he thought, wrong myth. He was Orpheus wasn’t he? Aziraphale returned to their little room. Stood by his desk. Stared down at the box underneath it. He was going to have to trust Crowley with the truth of his situation. They weren’t going to survive together, apocalypse or no, otherwise.

  
  
-2019, Monday, Five Days Until the End of the World-

  


Aziraphale sat on a bench, watching people come and go, taking pictures in front of the exhibits. He drummed his fingers on his leg. Fiddled with his pocket watch. Crowley hadn’t been specific about where to meet, just the general area, and so Aziraphale had picked a spot and waited, knowing the demon could find him whenever he chose. He checked his watch again. Just a few more minutes. They were going to discuss Warlock, how he seemed to be, and what their next steps were.  
  
And when that was finalized, Aziraphale was going to tell Crowley he’d lost his wings.  
  
He scoffed at the thought. Not _lost_. He knew exactly where they were.  
  
A figure slinked onto the bench beside him and Aziraphale folded his hands together in his lap, squeezing them so tightly his fingertips were white. Six years. Why had these six years felt so much longer than the decades they went without speaking? The centuries? What had changed?  
  
Aziraphale stole a glance to his side, just at the ground, at Crowley’s feet, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, daring anyone in the pathway to trip over him.  
  
It was different because he knew now. He knew he loved him. He knew he was in love with him. He knew what he was willing to give up to have another moment with the demon. But what wasn’t he willing to sacrifice? What if it came to Crowley or the world?  
  
Why, he thought a little selfishly, perhaps a little gluttonously, couldn’t he have both?  
  
He took a deep breath and turned toward Crowley fully, “Hello dear, I—oh. You’ve…you’ve cut your hair.”  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said with a lazy shrug, not bothering to look at him. “Time for a change.”  
  
It was short now. The shortest it’d been since the 60’s. Somehow both a ridiculous floof and yet carefully styled. It looked good on him. Of course it did. Everything did. But, that wasn’t the only thing that changed. _He’d_ changed. Again. Every time Crowley walked away from him he came back a little different. Crowley, just a few degrees off. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to pinpoint what it was that changed in the demon before, but he could now. He knew now that what he was looking at was the result of Crowley locking away another part of himself. His walls rebuilt and taller than before. Although perhaps, Aziraphale thought miserably, no stronger since he knew Crowley would tear them down all over again, brick by carefully placed brick if Aziraphale only smiled at him just so. He saw it in the demon’s eyes whenever they were toasty warm in the back room, fingers brushing when sharing a bottle, the careful smirk on his lips. When, and more importantly _why_ , had he taken that look for granted?  
He was going to ruin this. The truth of it sat heavy in his stomach. He had started down this path as a means of protecting Crowley and all he’d done was what he seemed to do best: push him away. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure he could salvage what they had begun to develop in recent decades.  
  
First, Warlock and the apocalypse.  
  
Then, the truth about his wings.  
  
“His birthday is in two days,” Crowley said. “That’ll be the start of it all. When he’ll start to come into his power. If he hasn’t already…”  
  
“Have you…noticed any signs?”  
  
Aziraphale had left their employment as the gardener a few months ago. He thought it might look less suspicious than if they were to both just disappear. Just in case anyone was watching. Just in case.  
  
“Nah,” Crowley said. “He’s…normal.”  
  
“That’s good then!”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
They sat in silence.  
  
Aziraphale floundered for a way to broach the topic. His mind made a few abortive efforts at stringing together an opening line.  
  
\--So about my wings…  
  
\--Remember that day I started asking all those invasive and terribly personal and offensive questions about your true State?  
  
\--Oh by the way dear, my wings fell off, or maybe they burned away, I’m not sure as I was unconscious from the pain, and now they’re in a box under my desk.  
  
\--My wings are gone and I let it happen because I realized I would rather fight all of Heaven than let the Archangel-fucking-Gabriel so much as look at you askance much less—  
  
“The hellhound is going to be key,” Crowley said. “It shows up at three on Wednesday.”  
  
“Right…” Aziraphale said slowly. “You’ve never actually mentioned a hellhound before.”  
  
He shrugged, “New development. It’s meant to guard him from evil or something. He’s got to name it. That’s the start of it all. Stalks-By-Night. Throat-Ripper. Something like that.”  
  
Aziraphale frowned. “Warlock? Throat-Ripper? More likely to name it Quacken II.”  
  
Crowley barely swallowed a laugh at that, his smile lurking at the edges and Aziraphale felt himself grow lighter at the sound. But Crowley snuck a glance at him, shifted, forced the smirk off his face.  
  
“Right. Well.” He lifted his arm and looked at…a watch? He was wearing a watch? “Party’s set to start at eleven so…I’ll see you there.”  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“A wristwatch, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale realized with a sudden pang how much he missed Crowley saying that. “I’ve never known you to wear a time piece.”  
  
“Yes well I’ve never had to count down the days before, have I?”  
  
He swallowed hard at that. “Crowley I…I want to talk to you about something.”  
  
“’Bout what?”  
  
“I. Well,” he cleared his throat. He felt like he was going to be sick. He’d never felt that before and found he wasn’t a fan of it at all. “It’s—I—Well this isn’t easy for me to say but um. I—“  
  
“No.”  
  
Aziraphale looked over at the demon, “What?”  
  
Crowley was half leaning back on the arm of the bench, head tilted back as he considered Aziraphale. “Whatever you’re trying to get out. No. You said after Armageddon. You said this,” he gestured between them, “whatever _the fuck_ this is, was on hold until after the apocalypse was dealt with.”  
  
The way Crowley spat out the curse stung Aziraphale. There was something truly angry in it and he hated that it came out when Crowley spoke of them, of what they had. Oh, he’d really messed things up this time.  
  
The demon leaned forward, tapping a finger on his wrist watch. “Two days, angel. You’ve waited this long to confide in me, surely two more days won’t upend your careful game of _fucking with my heart_.”  
  
“Crowley…”  
  
The demon pushed off the bench and stalked away.  
  
“Oh, oh God,” Aziraphale whimpered. They’d never acknowledged, not openly, what was happening between them. What was developing. The looks and the smiles and the touches and the flirting, because there had been flirting, they both knew it, and…and that almost kiss. But for Crowley to speak of it the way he did. He was so, so angry. Had he felt as though Aziraphale was toying with him this whole time? Didn’t he know how badly he wanted this? How afraid he was?  
  
He had to fix it. He had to find a way to fix it.

  
  
-2019, Wednesday, Three Days Until The End of the World-

  
  
Aziraphale sat in the passenger side of the Bentley, frosting on his face and in his hair, the raucous sounds of a children’s party filtering in through the open window. Beside him sat Crowley, brow furrowed as he glared at the radio.  
  
“He should be with you by now,” the voice, Dagon they’d said, filtered through the speakers. “Why? Has something gone wrong, Crowley?”  
  
“Nope,” Crowley lied. “Oh there he is, yes I see him now. Big…helly…hellhound. ‘Kay bye.”  
  
The faint high pitched whine that came whenever Hell tapped into something electronic to communicate on Earth finally dissipated. Aziraphale had gotten quite good at recognizing it. He learned to when he and Crowley started spending more time together, just to avoid a repeat of the grocer. Without the piercing sound thrumming uncomfortably at the base of his skull, a different sort of uncomfortable had settled in the silence left behind.  
  
After a moment he miracled his face clean and said, quietly, “No dog.”  
  
“No dog,” Crowley said. He was staring straight ahead, hands on the steering wheel.  
  
A moment passed. Then another.  
  
“Wrong boy,” Aziraphale offered.  
  
“Wrong boy,” Crowley repeated, his hands tight on the wheel.  
  
Aziraphale took in a deep breath. This…this wasn’t good. They didn’t have the real antichrist. All this time it was the wrong boy so _where_ was the _right_ boy and how were they ever going to convince him to save the world? Who knew what kind of demonic influences he’d been under this whole time? How would they ever—  
  
“Wrong boy,” Crowley said again.  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I know. We have to find—“  
  
“It’s not him.”  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
The demon’s hands slowly slid to his lap as he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, his entire body seeming to deflate. “It’s not,” he let out a sound that was part laugh, part sob, and entirely manic. There was no denying the relief in his voice as he said, “It’s not my boy.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“He can,” Crowley said without moving, “he can just…live now. He can have a normal life. Or as normal as he can manage with those vapid, soul-sucking excuses for parents. Hell won’t care. They’ll leave him alone. They’ll—he’ll never have to know the stench of it all, he won’t get dragged down there, they won’t get their filthy bloody hands on him, they won’t—he can—he—“  
Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder and Crowley’s head jerked up, his glasses sliding down enough for Aziraphale to see his eyes, wide with relief and on the brink of tears.  
  
“ _It’s not him_ ,” he choked out.  
  
“I know, my dear. I know,” he risked sliding his hand from Crowley’s shoulder to the back of his neck. When the demon didn’t pull away Aziraphale swallowed down a sigh of relief. He said gently, “But we have to find the _right_ boy or all of this is still going to come to an end.”  
  
He watched as Crowley looked behind him, back towards the house. A war of emotions played out on his face, in those bright eyes of his, before he pushed up his glasses and pulled back. “Fuck, you’re right.” He leaned back against the seat, “Think, think.”  
  
Aziraphale settled back into his own seat, “We’ve been with him his entire life, how could we have the wrong child?”  
  
“Something must’ve gone wrong at the baby swap, that’s the only thing that makes sense.”  
  
“Where did oh--!” Aziraphale gripped his seat as the car sped forward and out of the driveway.  
  
“Satanic convent outside of Tadfield,” Crowley said.  
  
After the first fifteen minutes of awkward silence Aziraphale started to rifle through Crowley’s music and eventually just settled on pushing play on whatever was already inside.  
  
__

_~~Caaaaaaaan  
  
Anybodyyyyy  
  
Find me--~~_

Crowley snapped and the car was plunged into silence once more.

When they arrived there were several cars parked outside and it didn’t really feel much like a convent. Whatever it was, the humans in the area certainly loved the place. Aziraphale could feel it all around, it saturated the area. He almost mentioned it to Crowley but thought better of it. And when an errant paintball hit his coat and the demon blew it away with a gentle miracle, he wondered…if he possessed the ability to sense love from other celestial beings, what would he sense from Crowley? Would it have changed anything? Any of the decisions he’d made over the years?

Aziraphale barely heard Crowley make a comment about “losing” to a woman who darted past as he snapped his fingers. Immediately the sound of real, actual gunfire filled the air.

“What did you do?”

“Gave them what they wanted.”

He followed behind the demon as he peered in rooms and kicked open doors at random. What _happened_ in the last six years? Why was he behaving like this?

“Crowley, they’re murdering each other out there!”

He stopped with a groan but when he turned to face Aziraphale he immediately lost some of his bravado. “No,” he said, “they’re not. They’re all having miraculous escapes. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.” He added that last part a little grudgingly but that was alright.

Aziraphale let out a deep sigh of relief, “You know Crowley, deep down you really are a nice—“

Crowley surged forward, grabbing Aziraphale by the front of his clothes and shoved him against the wall. It was all Aziraphale could do to shuffle backwards with the movement, eyes wide. His back hit with a quiet thud and Crowley pressed against him, teeth bared.

“I’m not nice,” he growled out. “Nice is a four-letter word. If you’re going to call me a four-letter word it should be—“

“Dear.”

“Evil.”

“Love.”

“Vile.”

“You aren’t—“

“I am, angel. I’m a _demon_. Rotten to the core, that’s me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He leaned in closer, impossibly closer. “Because thisss,” he hissed, “is what you wanted isn’t it? In case anyone’s looking right, angel? Nothing to see here, just two adversaries. Just an angel and a demon. Nothing else. Nothing…more.”

“No. This is not what I wanted. You _know_ —“

“I don’t know anything anymore, Aziraphale. Least of all when it comes to you.”

“Sorry to disrupt an intimate moment gentlemen, but can I help you?”

Crowley turned his glare on the woman who had spoken and Aziraphale let his eyes wander the demon’s face. His mouth, lips still pulled back in a snarl, brows furrowed. The line of his jaw. The tattoo at his temple. He was suddenly hit with the illogical notion that if he kissed Crowley right there, right on the winding shape of his mark, it would bring him back to normal. Melt the snarl from his face, sooth the growl out of his voice.

But Crowley released him, moving away, and it was all Aziraphale could do to fuss with his waistcoat and bowtie.

They questioned her and a lot of good it did; apparently that Hastur fellow with the toad aspect had burned the convent down after the baby swap. Lovely. They were back to square one only Armageddon was still steadily moving forward.

The car ride back was just as silent and tense as the trip down.

“What if,” Aziraphale started, “what if we got another human to try and find him? They’re good at that.” He imagined they would have resources and contacts and all sorts of things at their disposal that he couldn’t even begin to think up in order to miracle some information his way.

“Wouldn’t work. He’s got a, I don’t, automatic defense…thingie. Suspicions slides off him like…whatever it is water slides off of.”

“Well, I, do you have a better idea?”

He grunted.

“A single, better idea? Because we tried yours. We went to the convent and your people burned it, and all the records, down so—“

“Yeesss, cause that’s what we do. We’re demons. Me and _my_ people, _my_ side—“

“Crowley, don’t twist my word—“

“Not twisting anything, angel, you said—“

There was a thud, a yelp, and the brief blur of a figure flying over the hood of the car. They stopped. The car stopped. Aziraphale was fairly certain his heart might have if it were capable.

“You hit someone,” Aziraphale nearly squeaked. In all the years he’d been passenger to Crowley’s terrifying driving he never actual thought he would hit someone.

“Did not,” Crowley said, “someone hit me.”

“Oh for—“ he pushed out of the car and saw to the young woman sprawled on the grass. Healing her broken arm was easy and honestly, it felt good. Felt good to find a problem he could solve with a quick miracle. The high from that must have addled his brain; that was the only explanation for why he dared to take it upon himself to make modifications to Crowley’s precious car by adding a bike rack with another quick miracle.

The demon didn’t seem to mind, only offering the same kind of barely-there eye roll and muttering he would if Aziraphale had chastised him for putting his shoes on the couch. When they were all settled in the car, the young woman giving them the first set of directions, the silence settled once more. Until—

“Ducks!”

Both Aziraphale and the woman flinched, looking at Crowley.

“Wh—what about ducks?”

“ _They’re_ what water slides off of.”

Aziraphale thought he heard a quiet mutter of “ohmygodi’vebeenkidnappedbycrazypeople” come from the back seat.

“Just…drive the car, dear,” Aziraphale said gently. “Please.”

Dropping off the young woman went without further complications, although Aziraphale did have to undo some of his more overzealous miracle work on her damaged bike. Something he was sure Crowley may have teased him about any other time. But no, he remained silent and tense as they continued back to London.

When they pulled up outside the Bookshop, Azirahpale didn’t immediately move to leave. There was still so much he had to tell Crowley. That he wanted to tell him.

“So,” he said, “I suppose this…restarts the clock?”

Crowley turned to him, face scrunched and Aziraphale gestured to the man’s ridiculous wrist watch.

“Oh. Yeah. Guess it does. Armageddon’s not dealt with, huh?”

“Right then,” Aziraphale said and got out. He turned around, ready to suggest they try meeting up tomorrow, with clear heads, maybe some rest in Crowley’s case, and they could come up with a new plan. Together. But his eyes caught sight of a book in the backseat of the car and he knew it wasn’t Crowley’s.

“Oh, that woman left her book behind,” he said as he leaned in through the still open door and retrieved the item.

“Must be your lucky night,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale scoffed, “I would hardly call anything about tonight lu—“

The words dried up in his mouth. He stared down at the thick tome in his hands, a pleasant green color with gold embellishments. It felt surprising light for something so monumental. Shouldn’t it have a lock on the front? Protective coverings? Not…what looked to be sticky notes marking various pages?

Who put sticky notes in _The Nice & Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_?

It couldn’t be real. But if it was, if it _was_ , then it would have an answer. All the answers, technically. The only accurate collection of prophetic works in the history of, well, the world.

“You alright?” Crowley asked.

“Hmm? What? Yes. Quite. Most assuredly.” Aziraphale could feel his mouth moving, an incoherent stream of absolutely meaningless babble coming out. He might have even said “tickety-boo” at one point, which seemed a stretch, even for him. Before he knew it he was half in the Bookshop calling out “Mind how you go” and slamming the door behind him.

With the prophecies of Agnes Nutter he could figure out what to do next. He could fix things. He actively chose not to focus on a world where God was paying enough attention to remove his wings and then hand him all the answers, there were too many questions down that path and not nearly enough time before Armageddon.

Instead, Aziraphale sat down at his desk, pulled on his gloves, adjusted his reading glasses, and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nora Helmer is the main character in Ibsen's _A Doll's House_.
> 
> I would do questionable things to know what the ACTUAL follow-up to "nice is a 4 letter word" is supposed to be. Like, WHAT was he going to say after that? Where was he going with that?? It makes NO SENSE. These are the things that haunt me at night my friends.


	28. Chapter 28

-2019, Thursday, Two Days Until The End of the World-

-Crowley’s Apartment-

  
“I helped build that one…”  
  
Crowley watched the torn out pages of the astronomy book dance around his office. They were lovely pictures but had nothing on the reality of the stars. The deep, deep cold of space that settled into you, through you. He looked at his fingertips and he could almost still see the stardust on them, could remember…  
  
“What’s your great plan, then?” he whispered. “Hmm? Well?” he said a little louder. “Show me a great plan! Look I…I know you said you’d be testing them but what’s the point if you test them to _extinction?_ ”  
  
Nothing. No response. There never was. He’d tried, from time to time, to talk to Them. Maybe They were listening. Who knew? Who cared? They certainly weren’t talking. Not to him, not to Aziraphale, not to anyone probably.  
  
With a snap of his fingers the pages flew back into the book.  
  
Crowley went into the plant room.  
  
"Just look at you all," he said gently. In the decades since his first girl, Daisy, who still sat in her window, proud and tall and sporting a new, brilliant look, his room, his family, had only grown and grown. There were beauties taller than him, their leaves grazing the ceiling. Small sprouts just poking their heads out of the dirt. He always made sure to say good morning to them first. There was a bit of a temperamental bad boy off in the corner that would only respond to him if he spoke as Mx. Ashtoreth, which he indulged, of course.  
  
Another snap of his fingers adjusted the temperature a few degrees. "You've all been working so hard. And it shows, it does. Yes, even you Reginald. I, no, _no_ , I will not stand for that sort of self-deprecating talk, you are _beautiful_. That's right, you are. And you, Alanna, you've come so far...”  
  
“But…it doesn’t matter does it? It's all..." he took a deep, shaky breath, "it's all gonna burn, my loves, I'm so sorry. I tried, I did, you know I did. We had the wrong boy. Can you believe that? And we don't know where the right boy is. And...and...  
  
And I don't know what's going on with Aziraphale. I think...I think maybe I was too harsh. He wanted a demon to keep up appearances so I acted like one. I..." He ran his hands through his hair, still thrown by how short it was now, "I acted like a twat is what I did. He wanted to talk and-and I told him no, not until this was settled but I didn’t, I didn't know we had the wrong boy! And then we got to Tadfield and we hit that stupid girl. Who rides a bike, at night, in the woods, with _no reflectors?_ She was bloody asking for it and the next thing I know we're, we're back in London and he's asking if it’s reset, if-if the clock is and no, no it’s not. No. I should've said no. I should’ve…”  
  
He paced, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh God…Satan…we were so close. We were so…and now it’s all ruined isn’t it?”  
  
He looked out at his plants, “Am...Am I fool if I go to him? Again? There's...there’s nothing we can do for Earth now."  
  
Crowley gently ran a finger across daisy's branches.  
  
"I'm so sorry. I...I have to go. I'm going to try and get him to come with but I can't, I can't stay. I can't, I _won’t_ fight. You know that." He swallowed. "I'm sorry."  
  
It took a few more deep breaths before Crowley could will his voice into something a little less wrecked. When he felt it was as good as it was likely to get, he slipped his cell out of his pocket, the call already dialed and ringing as he put it to his ear.  
  
"Yes, hello, I’m sorry but we're closed." Aziraphale sounded frantic. No doubt trying to come up with a solution that didn't exist.  
  
"It's me."  
  
"Oh! Crowley! I...uh--"  
  
"Meet me at the ban--at the third alternative rendezvous point."  
  
“Right-right now? I—“  
  
“We need to talk, Aziraphale.”  
  
Crowley heard him make a small, whimpering sound. Could hear him swallow. “I…yes. Yes, I rather think we do.”  
  
“Alright then.” He hung up. Looked around at his plants. “I love you,” Crowley said.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild content warning: There's a lot of talk in this chapter about war and being afraid of having to experience it again. So please bear that in mind.

-2019, Thursday, Two Days Until The End of the World-

-The Bandstand-

It was much darker out than it ought to have been for the time of day. Late afternoon clouds gathered and hung low with apocalyptic menace. Aziraphale paced the length of the bandstand, back and forth, eventually he got out, walked the circumference of it before returning inside. There was hardly anyone out and about. He saw one jogger go by and there was a brief moment where he couldn’t tell if they were running for the sheer, idiotic enjoyment of it or if they were running _from_ something. There were only a few bullet points regarding the start of the apocalypse. The antichrist gets his power and then…hell on earth? War? Would it happen all at once or would things leak through first?  
He fiddled with his pocket watch. Rung his hangs. Messed with his cufflinks.

Crowley had said he wanted to talk. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d found the antichrist on his own, he likely would have led with that. No this was something else. It was an opportunity to get things…out. And in the open. And then they could figure out what to do next together. He knew were the antichrist was, they just had to figure out what to do with that information. They could hardly squeeze eleven years’ worth of attempting to balance the infernal and the holy into, what, forty-eight hours of time? Less?

Aziraphale wished that he’d tried to find a prophecy about him and Crowley. Maybe there was one tucked in there about this very moment. About how it would go. But he’d started the book at the beginning and stopped the moment he read that bit that led him to this…Adam Young.

The antichrist’s name was Adam.

He’d attribute that to a sense of humor but nothing about any of this was funny. And he had serious concerns about a God that thought it was.

His back tingled, the bones of his wings growing warm. The feathers had fallen, and never came back, and whenever Aziraphale thought even the slightest questioning or, well, blasphemous thought, (which, he realized, was happening more and more frequently), where his wings _should_ have been felt warm, almost hot sometimes. Not like burning but like…a sunbeam perhaps.

Azirphale blinked and in that blink Crowley appeared halfway down the path, sauntering toward him.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said quietly, “you can do this.”

“Well?” Crowley said as he stepped into the bandstand, “Any news? Name? Address? Bloody shoe size?”

“I—wait why his shoe size?”

“I’m jo—nevermind. I’ve got nothing either.”

“Right. I. Well,” he cleared his throat.

“I’m leaving, angel.”

“Y-you just got here. I thought you wanted to talk!”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. I’m leaving _Earth_.”

“ _What?_ Where are you going to go?”

“Anywhere!”

This could not be happening, this could not be happening. He was just going to leave? Leave him, leave Earth, leave everything?

“We can…we can go off together.”

Oh. “…together?”

“It’s a big universe, angel! There’s lots of spare planets up there! Lots! We could—wh—th—Alpha Centauri! No one would even notice us there, they never did!”

Aziraphale blinked. “…never did?”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets, shrunk in on himself. “I’m going.”

“Y-You’re just going to leave? Leave everything? What about—what about Warlock?”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Crowley snarled, closed the distance between them. “Don’t you _dare_. You don’t think I’ve spent my time coming to terms with him being mortal? That I haven’t already resigned myself to watching him grow up, grow old, of him dying? Do you really think if I have to choose between _war_ and blissful ignorance, I’m not going to choose the latter? The rains will burn _everything_. You’ve never seen anything like it. You think I want _that_ sight to be the last thing I see of my boy? If hellhounds don’t tear him apart first? If the hellfire doesn’t catch him, leaving him cold and burning and _alive_ for _it all?_ You…” He was taking heaving breathes, unable to go any further.

“No, no, I’m sorry. We can stop—“

“We. Can’t. We tried and we failed and I. Am. Leaving.”

“I’m certain if I can just reach the right people I can get all of this sorted—“

“There’s nothing to sort! They _want_ a war. They’re going to have one. There’s no right people. There’s just God, moving in mysterious ways, and _not talking to any of us._ ”

“You…you were an angel once.” Aziraphale still didn’t know the circumstances of his Fall but he couldn’t believe that Crowley had given up all hope completely. That there wasn’t any light in him anymore at all.

“And? I’m not anymore! Please, Aziraphale, you _have_ to accept that. I’m not an angel. I’m not a bloody archangel. Even if I was before, it doesn’t matter because I’m not one now. I’m a _demon_. And-and I’ve come to terms with that. I’ve spent a long time accepting what I am and changing what I don’t like and you are not going to take that from me by trying to squeeze me back into some version of an angel that does. Not. Exist. I…” he sighed, almost all of the anger and fire draining from him, “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“No, no my dear, of course not! I would never, I only, I only meant th-that there’s good in you.”

“I don’t have to be a _fucking angel_ to be _good_.”

“I…of course…”

“And someone doesn’t have to be demonic to be evil. It’s not _all_ about _sides_. It’s not just good or evil. There’s more Aziraphale, there’s so much more, so much in-between and you are _missing it_. How? How have you lived amongst them for so long and missed all the important bits?”

He hadn’t. He _hadn’t_. But there had to be clear sides, there had to be lines in the sand otherwise it was all grey and it was all up for interpretation and it was all ambiguous and sides didn’t matter and if that were the case...why did he lose his wings? Someone was paying attention. Someone _had_ to be paying attention.

They had to be.

And they’d see him stop this stupid war and he’d probably Fall for it but at least then he knew someone was watching and listening and in the end Earth and the humans would be safe.

“Come with me,” Crowley said in a whisper.

“You can’t ask me to choose, Crowley. Between you and the world. I can’t abandon them. I’d…” he swallowed, “I’d have you both if I could. You can’t ask me to choose.”

“And you can’t ask me to be part of another war. You don’t…you don’t remember, angel, and I…I can’t do it. Don’t ask me to, please.”

It wasn’t lost on Aziraphale that Crowley was also saying he _would_ stay, if only Aziraphale asked.

“I would never,” Aziraphale said gently.

Crowley put his hands back in his pockets. Looked away. For the first time in their long, long friendship, Aziraphale _needed_ Crowley to walk away first. He couldn’t do it himself.

But the demon lingered.

“You were going to tell me something. The other day, before the party, you started to and I told you no. What was it?”

“Oh. Ah…”

It hardly seemed important anymore. His wings were gone. They weren’t coming back. He had no doubt it was some form of punishment for his time spent with Crowley, his attraction to him, his love for him. And what would having that information do to the demon beyond riddle him with guilt? Besides, Crowley was leaving. Aziraphale doubted Gabriel would scour the stars for a single demon. So he’d be safe.

Which was all Aziraphale wanted.

“Some things,” Aziraphale said, “happened. Gabriel visited me. A few years ago, very early in our work with Warlock.”

“Ugh,” Crowley said, “that prick.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale let out a small, dry laugh, “He said the same thing about you.”

“What?”

“I think…the archangels remember, Crowley. About before the war. They remember everything and for some reason Gabriel, he hates you. He wants you dead.”

“…they remember?”

“I think so,” he said. Leave it to the demon to skip right past the important part of an archangel wanting to smite very specifically _him_.

“Beelz…” Crowley buried his hands in his hair. “Oh…oh Satan, Beelz. Oh no, oh no no no no, _no. No_. This is _not_ my fight.” He turned to Aziraphale. “Come with me, please. You weren’t the only one to get threats. They said they’d kill you, too.”

“Beelzebub?” He’d heard Crowley complain enough times about his boss to have a vague mental image of who they were.

“Actually…they said they’d kill me first. So I didn’t have to watch.”

“Oh…” That was…oddly merciful, for a demon. For a Lord of Hell. A horrible, sickening thought occurred to Aziraphale. “Do you know,” he said, “if it were reversed I think…I think Gabriel and Uriel and…I think they’d want me to watch you die. I think they’d _make_ me watch.”

Crowley looked at him and even with his glasses on Aziraphale could see the sad, patient look of pity on his face. The look of someone that had made these discoveries a long, long time ago and had only been waiting for him to catch up.

“Please…” Crowley said.

“No. I’m…I’m staying. You go. Stay safe. I’m…I’m going to stay here.”

Aziraphale waited for him to huff out a sigh. For him to make one last plea. Or one last biting comment. He waited for Crowley to walk away. Instead, Crowley slipped off his glasses, tucked them into his jacket, and went to him. He stopped right in front of him and slowly, carefully, raised a hand to Aziraphale’s face, gently cradling his cheek, his fingertips teasing at his curls. The angel leaned into it instinctively, letting his eyes flutter closed, as both his hands came to hold onto Crowley’s wrist, to keep his hand there. He wanted it there forever.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said.

He forced himself to open his eyes, to look up into Crowley’s.

“You’re sure?”

The tears started falling before Aziraphale could think to stop himself. It was all he could do to speak in something less than a choked sob when he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been less sure of anything in my life.”

Crowley’s other hand came up, the backs of his fingers gently brushing the tears away. He was so gentle. Always so gentle. Even as his hand lowered, fingertips ghosting over Aziraphale’s neck. He leaned in, just a bit.

“Can I?” he asked. His voice was low, not even a whisper, barely breathed.

“I…”

“If not now,” Crowley said with a small smile, a tease in his voice, “then when, angel? The world is literally ending. What moment are you waiting for?”

One that wasn’t full of fear. Or tears. Or was desperate. One that happens when they’re bloody sober but still laughing and happy and silly. Candles might be nice. A moment that’s theirs. When will _that_ happen?

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s smile only grew. “That’s alright,” he said.

“I’m going to fix this. I’m going to fix it and I’m going to come find you.”

His smile faltered a little then, only a little. “Of course you are, darling.”

The whispered term of endearment sent fresh tears rolling down his cheeks and Crowley thumbed them away before tilting Aziraphale’s head forward and placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

He took a step back.

His hand fell away.

Aziraphale clutched onto his fingers.

He took another step back and Aziraphale let go.

Then he slid on his glasses, a great, obnoxious, and so painfully genuine smile on his face as he said, voice light and teasing as though they were only saying farewell until the next day, “Have a nice doomsday!”

And then he walked away.

Aziraphale didn’t watch.

He turned, wiping the tears from his face, and started walking. He was sad and heartbroken and determined but he was also _angry_. Angry that he had to choose, angry that everything was so close to ending, angry that his only hope of regaining his belief in a watchful, loving God was that She might make him Fall for his actions. He could feel the veins of golden, holy light within him start to creep to the surface. The dirt that had started to gather at the edges of his True State dusted behind him. He could feel it through his shoes, through the concrete of the walkway. His fingers itched to reach for…what, he didn’t know. But he could almost feel the shape of it in the palm of his hand, the weight of it.

He shook his hand out, willed the anger bubbling up in him to calm down. He was going to figure it out, he was going to fix it, and he was going to do it without the righteous anger that was so often expected of Heaven. He was going to do it with a smile and bloody kindness. There had to be someone, anyone, in Heaven that would listen and would set things right again. He just had to talk to them, that was all.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Happy Holidays!
> 
> Quick **CONTENT WARNING** : This chapter features a character having a panic attack, as well as descriptions of gore and, well, essentially PTSD. Please, please bear these things in mind!
> 
> As much as I love the idea of new beginnings I think it's safe to say that I likely won't be able to finish this by the New Year, I'm in the middle of getting ready to move to the other side of the country in the next oh, 2 weeks??? Streeeesss lol. But! I am working continuously on it and I'll try to keep the updates as steady as I can. As always I'm eternally grateful for all of your patience, support, and encouragement. Your comments truly get me through the tough times, thank you <3

-2019, Saturday, The Last Day of The World-  
-A Movie Theatre-

  
Crowley didn't go to Alpha Centauri. He didn't leave Earth. He didn't even leave London. He wasn't sure what he was going to do when the Apocalypse started in earnest. He hadn’t thought that far out. All he knew was that Aziraphale was on Earth, a war was coming, and the bloody angel wouldn’t leave. Crowley hoped that when things began he would come to his senses and finally come with him but…he knew Aziraphale would insist on staying. The warrior in him would no doubt come to life and he’d wield that terrifying sword, or whatever weapon he could get his hands on, he was trained in _many_ , whether he remembered it or not, and he’d fight to protect the humans.  
  
Briefly, Crowley wondered what their lives would look like if that were the case; he'd seen enough movies to picture it: two supernatural entities from opposite sides working together to keep the humans caught in the middle of a celestial war safe as their world is razed. There might be kissing involved. Huh. He'd watch that.  
  
Unfortunately he was instead sitting in a dingy theatre, sprawled over several seats, a cup of popcorn in his hands. He wasn't eating it, but it felt good to have something to hold onto and fiddle with, especially while his mind felt so scattered.  
  
He'd been keeping track of Aziraphale ever since he'd said goodbye in the bandstand. Kept a constant feel out for not only his celestial energy but anything within five miles of him, demonic or otherwise. So far, no one had come near the angel. The effort was more than exhausting, it was crippling. His mind felt like it was slowly being shredded. More than a few patches of scales had appeared across his body, the whites of his eyes were swallowed entirely by the amber. It was taking everything in him to keep his true state tucked neatly into his human corporation. He was always one for dramatic sprawling but he felt as though he _had_ to keep his legs from touching or he might look down and realize his bottom half was decidedly more snake than human.  
  
He wasn’t even sure what was happening on the screen. Some terrifying, animated woodland animals were hopping about. Vaguely, he remembered seeing a poster on his way in for Saturday Morning Fun Time and was suddenly struck with how that sounded just a bit lewd. A small puff of air escaped him in a quiet laugh. Then it grew into a chuckle. And just as it was threatening to spill over into mad laughter, Crowley realized he was losing his grip on things and forced himself to focus up.  
Aziraphale.  
  
That was what was most important. He needed to concentrate on keeping his angel safe.  
  
What he really needed, he thought miserably, was a means of convincing the angel to leave. He wondered idly if he could just…kidnap the man. Carry him off, toss him into the Bentley, and speed off to Alpha Centauri and sure, he’d complain and huff, but they’d be on their way to safety.  
  
Crowley felt another deranged giggle bubble up in him at the thought that he could ever get Aziraphale to do _anything_ he didn’t want to, much less by brute force. He had no doubt that the Principality of the Eastern Gate could utterly crush him, no use of divine force or smiting necessary, if he had half a mind to. Crowley had been the one to pin the angel to the wall but he could’ve easily turned the tables on him. It could have easily been Crowley up against that wall. Aziraphale’s weight holding him to it. It could’ve—Crowley shifted in his seat, blinked hard, _focus_. Now _really_ wasn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts.  
  
He reached out again for Aziraphale.  
  
The angel was in Soho now. At, Crowley squinted as he tried to visualize the lay of the land in his head. A café? No, it was a bakery.  
  
The little one he favored that had those raspberry crumb bars he loved so much.  
  
The man was buying raspberry crumb bars on the last day of the world.  
  
It was so ridiculously charming Crowley could feel the tears prickling.  
  
He could imagine the angel would use the excuse that it was going to help him think. Help him clear his mind and focus on things. He could see him now. Setting the little cake on a plate. Sipping at his tea. Napkin in lap. While he tried to come up with a way to save the world. To save everyone.  
  
To save them.  
  
He rubbed at a kernel of popcorn between his fingers.  
  
Aziraphale left the bakery. Headed back toward the bookshop. Crowley tossed his ruined piece of popcorn at the back of someone’s head and reached in for a fresh piece. As he did, his nails scraped the sides; they’d grown nearly an inch in length. No, it wasn’t that. He looked closer. His fingertips had hardened and lengthened into claws. The black of them shimmering in the dim theater light. Scales blossomed across the back of his hand while he watched. Crowley took a few deep, steadying breaths.  
  
“Crowley!”  
  
He looked up. One of the horrifying woodland creatures had somehow managed to become even uglier.  
  
“Hastur.”  
  
“Where is the boy?”  
  
“Lots of boys, gotta be more specific.”  
  
“The _Antichrist_. Where is he? We took the child to Megido. For the start of it.”  
  
Crowley tensed. Warlock was safe, he was fine. He would know if someone had tried to harm him. The charm he’d given him was a literal piece of his essence. If anything celestial tried to harm Warlock it would come to life and protect him. It would only work the once but Crowley hoped it would be enough. He hoped it would never have a reason to be anything more than a charm.  
  
“Sounds lovely. Lovely spot to start the end of days.”  
  
“There was no dog! He had no powers! He said…he said I smelled of poo.”  
  
Crowley laughed at that. He knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t afford to anger Hell any more than he already had, but the mental image of his boy looking Hastur in his stupid face and telling him, quite truthfully, that he smelled of poo, was too rich.  
  
“We know you had something to do with this. Don’t move. We’re coming for you, Crowley. You’re dead.”  
  
Oop, that was his cue. With a flail of limbs he scrambled out of his seats.  
  
Crowley sped to his flat, the front door slamming open and then closed again behind him. “They know,” he said to the plants. “They know it was me that somehow screwed this up. Although, if anyone bothered to asked, I think I could give a bloody compelling argument that it was those blasted _nuns_ that messed this up. _My_ job was to deliver a baby and I did that. And then some. Raised the kid.”  
  
He stood in front of his safe.  
  
“They should be giving me more commendations. This is the one time I did the work. Above and beyond.”  
  
He was stalling. He knew it. The plants knew it. Daisy _certainly_ knew it, she’d been with him too long not to know his mutters and putterings for what they were.  
  
Crowley opened the safe. Tried not to pay too much attention to the way his hand shook as he spun the combination.  
  
Holy water.  
  
It was holy water.  
  
Powerful stuff that had the exact same effect as the rains of the first war.  
  
When he asked Aziraphale for it he imagined he’d have to use it to keep the angel safe. He imagined he would wield it against other demons in some valiant moment where he was the one to save them. He thought it would be life or death, the middle of a fight, the frenzy of a war going on. He didn’t think it’d be on a Saturday afternoon, before the war even started, in the quiet of his flat. He didn’t think he’d have time to…well, to think about it.  
  
Crowley didn’t fight in the first war. He hid. He had no desire to kill and he didn’t think he was capable of it, not really. And certainly not with holy water.  
  
He stared at the thermos, the tartan of it calm and cozy and everything he would associate with Aziraphale. It left no hint at the truly destructive power inside.  
  
He tried not to think of it. Tried not to picture it, what it could do. The way it seeped, slow and casual, like any normal rainwater, innocent. Innocuous. Cool. And it kept seeping, pressing in, burrowing through flesh and muscle and bone. It didn’t burn. Hellfire burned with a freezing intensity but Crowley knew, he knew with the certainty of a prey staring into the maw of their destruction, that it would be cool. It would almost feel comforting. Even as it melted through you. As it corroded and burned and ate its way, taking your form with it, turning something once alive, once vibrant, once beautiful into a wailing, screaming mess of slopping viscera.  
  
Crowley tightened his grip on the desk behind him. He wasn’t sure when he had backed up into it but he was glad for it. Glad for the sturdiness of it. For something real and present and there to hold onto as his breath suddenly seemed in short supply.  
  
He gritted his teeth.  
  
He didn’t _need_ air. He didn’t _need_ to breath. And he sure as fuck didn’t need bloody panic attacks. But his corporation hadn’t seemed to get that message and so he stood there, heaving, holding onto the table, trying not to let the tears fall. He couldn’t bring himself to move toward the thermos and he couldn’t quite move away. He had to do _something_ and his mind could only supply the vague notion of crawling under the table.  
  
He reached for Aziraphale, felt around for his energy. He was a block or so away from the bookshop and there were two, no, three angels in very close proximity to him. Despite how wound up he already was, his body somehow found a way to tense even more; two of them were archangels. He tightened his grip on the wisping threads of the celestial. He could be there in a moment if he needed to be.  
  
But what could he do against three angels? Two of them archangels? They’d smite him in a moment. He had to trust that Aziraphale could handle them. He knew Heaven wanted this war as much as Hell did but they had no reason to suspect Aziraphale had anything to do with the misplacement of the Antichrist. He should be fine. Should be safe. There might still be time to convince him to—  
  
The horns bellowed and with them came a pull at the very core of Crowley, tugging him down. He fought it, falling to his knees with the effort of it. His claws dug gauges into the table, his hair went long, spilling over his shoulder, and he could tell from the way the fabric of his shirt caught that his forearms were covered in scales now. It was too much. It was too hard, expending so much energy to keep an eye on Aziraphale, to keep a hold on him, still fighting the heaving roils of a very human panic attack, and now this.  
  
Hastur was still coming for him. No doubt bringing Ligur in tow. He had to get up. He had to get out. He had to get to Aziraphale.  
  
He pushed to his feet, genuinely surprised he still _had_ feet. His tongue flicked out, long and thin and fully serpentine and he could taste them, the stench of two creatures of Hell closing in on him.  
  
“Ssshhhit,” he said in a sort of hissed lisp.  
  
The thermos still sat in the safe. Still looked unassuming. Nonthreatening. He could do this. He could. He could—he could set up a small trap for them. Maybe just coat the floor in the hall with the stuff. They’d step right in it. And then he could get out and go to Aziraphale. He was in the bookshop now. Another being was there too. Very strong. Something that powerful had no right being on Earth without hiding behind some kind of vaguely human shape. But it was the end of days, all bets were off.  
  
Crowley forced himself to take a step forward and then another and before he knew it he was shuffling toward the safe, hand outstretched, and grabbing the thermos. He thought once he had it in his hands he could focus on his task, he could ground himself and figure out what to do next. After all, he’d carried it once before. Drove around with it in his car. Brought it into the apartment. Put it in the safe.  
  
But it was still a vague idea then. More concept and wild fantasy than an actual violent weapon. Now he was keenly aware of what it was and that it was in his hands. Oh god, oh Satan, it was in his hands. Touching it was so much worse. He felt the panic rise again. He had to put it down. He had to—to put it back. He had to figure out a way to get rid of Hastur and Ligur. Why, why had he let everyone know where he lived? Why had he made such an easy target of himself?  
  
Because it kept eyes off Aziraphale, that’s why. His angel. He reached for him again, for the familiar vibration of his celestial energy on Earth. The color of it that he could hear, a sound he could taste. He reached.  
  
No.  
  
Crowley reached.  
  
He searched.  
  
He couldn’t find him.  
  
He was just there. He was _just there_. The angels had left when the horns sounded, he felt it. There was that being in the Bookshop but they hadn’t felt threatening, just…excessive in their Heavenly prescence. Like a very large, very bright lamp. Nothing more. What happened. _What happened?_  
  
A new sort of panic came over him, this one layered with fear and anger. They’d done something to him. That fast. Had they taken him back up to Heaven? Was he being outfitted with battle gear and weapons and whatever else? He said…he said he’d find him. Crowley thought he’d always be on Earth. He wasn’t prepared for a reality where Aziraphale zipped back up to Heaven. He hadn’t said a proper goodbye. He…he…  
  
“Crooooowleeeeey.”  
  
“Oh fuck,” the demon nearly sobbed. He looked down at the thermos. The sight of it blurred. He could hear them, Hastur and Ligur, making a racket in the kitchen, knocking through his cabinets like he was hiding in them.  
  
Crowley raised one shaking hand and snapped his fingers. It was a risk, trying to use a demonic miracle on a holy item but he couldn’t bring himself to do much else. He could barely hold the blessed thing much less unscrew the cap. But it worked, for better or worse, it worked. There was a small bucket now perched on the top of his door, the holy water relocated inside of it. Something he’d seen in a movie once.  
  
He snapped again.  
  
A note appeared on the door.  
  
It read, very clearly, “ _Do not open. Holy Water trap._ ”  
  
Crowley edged around his table. “I don’t force,” he said quietly. “I don’t control.” He blinked and several tears fell. “That’s Heaven’s gig.”  
  
“Croooooowleeeeey.”  
  
“I don’t make anyone do anything they don’t want to do.”  
  
“Crooowleeeeeey!”  
  
“In here,” he called out and quickly snapped his fingers. He appeared beside the Bentely with a stumble. His head spun and he just barely managed to grab onto the car and not hit the sidewalk with a thud. He wanted to miracle himself right to the Bookshop but he didn’t have the strength. It was all he could do to get in the car and speed off. Hastur and Ligur would make their choices, he couldn’t be responsible for that.  
  
He had to get to the Bookshop. He had to find Aziraphale. The Bookshop. He had to get to the…the Bookshop…  
  
the Bookshop…  
  


…was in flames.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
> 
> First up, **CONTENT WARNING** This chapter features a rando npc that is dealing with the loss of a parent and Aziraphale comforts them as best he can. So themes of grief and loss, please take care of yourself when reading.
> 
> Ugh, it feels like every time I update it comes with an apology, I'm sorry! (Ack now I'm apologizing for apologizing!)
> 
> Anyway, I know I mentioned I was moving to the other side of the country and that was stressful enough, but 3 days before I flew out I found out my grandmother passed. Ironically, a bulk of this chapter had already been drafted and was set to deal with themes of grief and loss so...that just made it a little harder to come back to. BUT! I'm here and I have an update for all y'all. As always, comments are love and I'm eternally grateful for your patience and encouragement.
> 
> Thank you <3

-2019, Saturday, The Last Day of The World-  
-Between, Around, Throughout-

It’d been a very, very long time since Aziraphale was last discorporated. The first had been sometime in the first millennia, still figuring out human bodies, and food, he’d choked to death on something. As far as deaths go it was…pretty embarrassing. Doubly so because he didn’t actually _need to breathe_. He’d gotten a stern talking to from just about every archangel in Heaven and was the butt of many jokes from other angels after. The paperwork had taken _ages_. Arguing to get his same corporation back had taken even longer. He liked his corporation. Gabriel had wanted him to have something more…solid. More befitting a Principality, however pathetic he was at doing his job. How would the other angels respect him, and humans fear him, Gabriel reasoned, if he looked like _that_?  
  
Aziraphale didn’t want to be feared.  
  
And he wasn’t much interested in garnerning the respect of other angels. Not any more.  
  
The next time he was discorporated was solidly not his fault. He’d been murdered. Well, accidental manslaughter he supposed was the technical term. Sometime in the two or three hundreds, it was before Wessex, he remembered that much. He rather foolishly stepped into a dispute and gotten shoved. His ankle twisted and his head hit a hard surface in a manner heads were not meant to hit hard surfaces.  
  
He’d at least been able to argue it happened in an attempt to instill peace. He decidedly did not mention the reason he wanted to instill peace was because he couldn’t hear the bard over the bickering.  
  
The third time might have been in Paris, but he was saved.  
  
The time after might have happened in a church during a war, but again, he was saved.  
  
Crowley always seemed to know when he was in danger (the tavern incident notwithstanding, they hadn’t quite developed that relationship yet). He always knew and he was always right there to save him.  
  
Except this time.  
  
And that worried Aziraphale.  
  
Did he really go off to Alpha Centauri? What if he did but realized Aziraphale was in danger and came back only to find an empty Bookshop? Stepping into the portal would’ve destroyed his physical corporation, there’d be nothing there of him.  
  
He had to find him. He had to find him and tell him he was sorry and he was wrong for thinking he could do this without him, without his best friend, without _his_ demon. He had to tell him about the antichrist, the real one, and they had to come up with a plan, together. He’d been so, so foolish to trust in Heaven. He knew that now, couldn’t deny it any longer, but it still hurt.  
  
Aziraphale blinked, coming back to himself, and looked out at the angels staring back at him, uniforms in hand. At the quartermaster holding his own out to him. These were his soldiers. He was meant to _lead_ them. Lead them into…into battle.  
  
He could feel it again, the ghost weight in the palm of his hand, a twitch in his wrist. He could almost hear his voice yelling orders. Instructions to injure, to stop, but not to kill, never to kill. He could…he could hear it…when that fight was all but won he left. He left searching for more traitors. No. For one. Not a traitor. A friend. A love.  
  
His light.  
  
“Principality,” the quartermaster practically hissed. “This is what you were made for.”  
  
Aziraphale pushed the feeling down. Clenched his hands into fists. “Hmm. Was I?” he asked, and even he could hear the flippancy in his voice but he just didn’t care. “Funny thing is…I can’t seem to remember.”  
  
The quartermaster spluttered and Aziraphale let out a quiet “hmm”. Choosing, instead, to focus on a different pull he could feel just below the other. Below the heavenly trumpets and choirs and the righteous anger trying so desperately to take hold of him, to twist him into something he never wanted to be, he could feel something quieter, calmer. Something that felt like warm tea in his mouth, a dusting of crumbs on his lips. It felt like a pond, a book, a rooftop and an expanse of stars glittering and glorious. Like love in his heart, near bursting, red hair between his fingers, a confession burning the tip of his tongue. A decision made, a stance taken, consequences paid.  
  
It felt like home.  
  
Aziraphale turned, following that tug, and spotted a floating orb. It was the Earth, or a representation of it. He imagined Heaven was going to use it to help organize their attack. Instantly send armies and troops and whatever else to various locations at once. He approached it, feeling the dirt of his true form slip through, dust in his wake. There were other changes that he’d noticed, couldn’t help but notice as he was suddenly ripped from his corporation.  
  
His feathers never came back but something else had in their stead. A thin, gossamer-like substance cascaded from the bones of his wings. The brief moment he’d caught sight of them, they were fluttering, lighter than air. He didn’t think they’d be much use for flying, or shelter, or much of anything really. But at least it wasn’t just the bone anymore. At least he didn’t think of insect legs when he saw them jutting out from his back.  
  
There was a new aspect as well. Something with teeth. A mane. A roar. He could feel the power of it humming at the base of his throat. The strength of it in his arms, the expanse of his back. He turned his head back toward the Quartermaster and he could feel the whisper of a mane shift with the movement.  
  
“How do you work this?” he asked.  
  
The quartermaster continued his eloquent spluttering. The angels in line seemed to shrink back a little. He wondered what they saw. Nevermind that. He had an Earth to save, humans to protect, and a demon to kiss.  
  
Aziraphale pressed a cautious finger to the orb and with whoosh, and a small squeal, he was gone.  
  
He no longer had a corporation, and Heaven wasn’t likely to give him a new one, so the first thing he had to do was find a body. He could hardly manifest in all his heavenly glory on Earth, especially not with the fragile state it was in, Armageddon looming, and when he had no idea what his manifestation would entail. No it would be better, safer, to find a willing host.  
  
Possession. It wasn’t ideal but he hardly had a choice in the matter. The trick would be finding someone and then making it to Crowley in time. He couldn’t be sure he would be able to miracle himself from one point to another while inhabiting a mortal, the miracle could destroy them. No, he’d have to find a body and then travel, the normal way, to Crowley.  
  
Oh he hoped Crowley was still on Earth otherwise this was going to become _very_ difficult indeed.  
  
Aziraphale felt tugs, slight cracks in certain frames, but nothing accommodating enough, nothing that wouldn’t require force. He was beginning to panic, just a bit, when he felt a tug and then another. He felt around until he could sense the crack, no—this was more of a doorway. Aziraphale made his way to it, testing the edges, and pushed through.  
  
He stood in a room. A bedroom. A child’s room. There were posters on the walls featuring…whomever heralded the latest bebop craze. Adorable little lights draped along the wall, dimly illuminating photos, bits of art, stickers. He saw a desk, textbooks stacked on the floor near it. And finally, on the floor right in front of him, was a young girl, no more than fourteen perhaps, a few candles, and Ouija board.  
  
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“Is there anyone there? Please.”  
  
“You really ought not to play with these things,” he said. “You’re lucky _I’m_ what came through.”  
  
She sighed. Shifted her weight. “Please uh, spirits? Is there anyone present? Can anyone hear me?”  
  
Aziraphale realized she couldn’t hear him and that he would likely have to communicate with her through the board. He considered leaving, the last thing he wanted to do was encourage use of the thing by confirming it had worked but…  
  
“Please? I just…I want to talk to my mom.”  
  
Oh dear.  
  
Well, what was the point in fighting so hard to save the world if he didn’t try to help a single person right in front of him?  
  
With a quiet sigh he sat down across from her, the movement causing the flame on her candles to shift.  
  
The young girl let out a small gasp, “Is…is someone there?”  
  
Azirpahale placed his hand on the small pointer and gently started moving it as the girl let out a constant stream of “ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod”. He moved it to ‘yes’.  
  
“Mom?!”  
  
“You poor thing,” he said as he reluctantly moved it to ‘no’.  
  
“Oh.” Her shoulders dropped. After a moment her eyes widened and she sat up a little straighter. “Are you…a demon?”  
  
“ _Now_ you ask?” he said with a chuckle, even as he moved the pointer in a small circle to come back on ‘no’.  
  
“Are you evil?”  
  
‘No’  
  
“Are you lying?”  
  
Aziraphale laughed aloud at that. ‘No’  
  
She chewed her lip a bit. Glanced toward her closed door and lowered her voice. “Do you think…you can find my mom? Can you tell me if she’s ok? Please, I just want to know if she’s ok. Did she go to Heaven? Is-is it even real or…?”  
  
‘No’  
  
“No…you can’t find her or no, you can’t tell me if she’s okay?”  
  
He moved the pointer to each letter of his answer, the young girl spelling it out.  
  
“B…o…t…h. Oh. Why’d you _come_ then? Sorry,” she said quickly, “sorry that was rude.”  
  
He thought about it. He knew why he had walked through the door. And he knew why he had chosen to stay. He moved the pointer.  
  
“Y…o…u. Me? You came for me? Oh my God am I gonna die too?”  
  
He fairly yanked the pointer over to ‘no’.  
  
“Oh ok. I mean…may not be the worst thing…”  
  
Aziraphale moved it in a small, quick circle back to ‘no’. “We won’t be having those kinds of thoughts, my dear.”  
  
“So…what do you mean you came for me?”  
  
“I really wish there was a faster way to communicate with you,” Aziraphale muttered as he began moving the pointer.  
  
“What…can…I…do…to…help?” She blinked. Sat back. And started crying. “No one ever asks that… It’s always, ‘how are you?’ ‘Are you ok?’ ‘How are you holding up?’ And it’s like no, no I’m not bloody okay, now what? They never have an answer for that. No follow-up! It’s just oh, it’ll get better. Does it? Really? _When_?”  
  
Aziraphale wished Crowley was there. He would know what to say. He would know how to comfort her. Instead he merely sat there while she sobbed.  
  
What a useless angel.  
  
After a few moments she sniffled, awkwardly tryng to wipe her face on her shoulder without letting go of the pointer. “Ghost? Are you still there?”  
  
‘Yes’  
  
“So…I guess, I guess that’s what you can do. Make it…hurt less. I don’t want to forget! No like, ghostly memory wipes, yeah?”  
  
He chuckled.  
  
“Just…please, I can’t. Please let it hurt less.”  
  
He moved the pointer. “’O…k…’ Really?”  
  
‘Yes’  
  
“Oh! Oh, you’re not…gonna take my soul or something are you?”  
  
“You really ought to start asking those sorts of questions up front,” he admonished gently. ‘No’ he responded and then continued moving the pointer around the board.  
  
“’Get…some…rest…better…in…morning’. Okay.” She sniffled again, “Thank you.”  
  
Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say in response. Normally he’d offer some sort of blessing but he hardly felt in the position to do such a thing, especially with how he currently felt toward the Almighty.  
  
“Oh, what’s your name?”  
  
He sighed, “There is no way I’m spelling my entire name on this horrid device.”  
  
“’Z…i…r…a’,” she said. “Oh! I didn’t you were a _girl_.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked at that, “How did you reach _that_ conclusion? I’ll have you know I’m neither, thank you very much.”  
  
She smiled, “I’m Leona. I’m really glad I didn’t get a demon or something, my friend said I would.”  
  
“Might have been better off, truth be told. Well, if you’d gotten _my_ demon, I’m sure.”  
  
“Thanks, Zee.”  
  
“Zee?” Aziraphale repeated. It felt a little weird but…he didn’t hate it.  
  
The young girl got up and as she moved her hands from the board Aziraphale felt the connection that pulled him there begin to fade. She folded up the game and shoved it under her bed before climbing in. Once she was settled, covers up to her chin, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, Aziraphale got up.  
  
First, he snapped the Ouija board far, far away. Then he took a look at the drawings on her wall, the books on her shelves, and rearranged them. Just a little. Pulled the paints that were tucked into the far corner of a drawer a little further out. Miracled up a fresh sketchbook between the full ones. Inched an art book from a popular movie a little further out of place on the shelf, a little more prominent, just begging to be picked up. And after all that, he went to the girl and placed his fingertips very gently on her temple.  
  
“You’re going to have a lovely dream of whatever you like best. You’re going to think of things that inspire you. That bring you joy. And when you wake, you’re going to create something beautiful. I can’t make it hurt less, I’m so sorry. But I can encourage you to take hold of your grief and reshape it. To allow it its space, cry when you need it, let it ache, but don’t let it consume you. It won’t come easy, creating when hurting so, so much. But you’re already so strong, my dear. You have the ability to create something so beautiful that it will hurt less, I promise.”  
  
He stayed until she slipped into sleep and then he went back through the doorway. He still had a world to save, an apocalypse to thwart. He didn’t wander for long before he spotted another doorway wide open.  
  
Aziraphale went through.  
  
He found himself in a large white space, blurs of people moving around him. Nothing he could quite make out though. Just the suggestion of a body, of movement. He could hear arguments, laughter, conversations, the chatter of people in so many different languages. All layered on top another. Some of them seemed as though they might be receptive enough, but that margin of doubt gave him cause for concern. He didn’t have a lot of time for trial and error and he certainly didn’t want to hurt any humans in the process.  
  
“Same again!”  
  
Aziraphale gasped. Crowley! That was Crowley! He searched the area, trying to discern which vague blur of a person might be him.  
  
“I never asked to be a demon…”  
  
There! He followed his voice.  
  
“…next thing I know I’m doing a million light year dive into a pool of boiling sulfur.”  
  
Oh. Oh Crowley. His Crowley. He was still on Earth. After everything he’d said, he stayed. Aziraphale could make out the haze of a seat across from the demon and he cautiously sat in it, relieved when he didn’t fall through. His demon. Still on Earth with a war coming. Aziraphale had to figure out a way to stop it. If he could just…if he could get Crowley to see him, to hear him, maybe he could warn him about—  
  
“Aziraphale?”  
  
“Crowley!”  
  
“Are you…here?”  
  
“Ah, good question,” he was smiling. He couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m not certain. I’ve never really done this before. You can hear me, right?”  
  
“Of course I can hear you.”  
  
He rolled his eyes, “Yes, well… I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things. I should’ve…back at the… did you go to Alpha Centauri?” That was hardly the most pressing concern but he wanted to know. He wanted to know if Crowley had left then what brought him back.  
  
“No,” Crowley said. “Changed my mind. Stuff…happened. Thought I lost you. I mean I guess I have. No idea where you are now.”  
  
“I told you I’d find you, Crowley.”  
  
“You did.”  
  
He wanted to reach out to him. To hear him call him “darling” again. “Listen, back in the Bookshop, there’s a book I need you to get.”  
  
“Oh…I…angel. Th-the Bookshop isn’t there anymore.”  
  
“Not…there?” That didn’t make sense. Buildings don’t just disappear.  
  
“I’m…I’m so sorry. It burned down.”  
  
Oh. It was gone? It…burned? How did it—how did it _burn_? That human. That stupid, stupid human. Oh, his books. Their little alcove. The place that was _theirs_. His wings! Oh…the mug Crowley had gotten him. His little angel mug it was, “…all of it?”  
  
It took Crowley a few tries to stammer out a “…yeah. What was the book?”  
  
Aziraphale swallowed. He was trying very hard not to cry. Why had She taken his Bookshop? It was another punishment. Yet another one. Salt in the wound at this point. “The…the one the young lady with the bicycle left behind. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of—“  
  
“Agnes Nutter!!”  
  
Aziraphale jumped as Crowley shouted. It was occurring to him the demon might be drunk.  
  
“Yes! I took it!  
  
“You took it? You have it?”  
  
“Look,” his form shifted to, Aziraphale assumed, hold something up. “Souvenir!”  
  
“ _Souven_ —you took that as,” he took a deep breath. Of all the things the demon could’ve grabbed. “Look inside, I made notes. It’s…it’s all in there. The real antichrist. His name, address, everything else. I worked it all out. I worked it all out and I thought, I thought I could use it to stop everything, to show them but they don’t…you were right, Crowley.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
Aziraphale took another steadying breath. Why was Crowley apologizing to him? He’d tried warning him where Heaven’s priorities lied. He tried to get him to leave before it was too late. He’d been so patient with him. Aziraphale should’ve been apologizing to _him_. It was getting harder and harder not to cry. He seemed to be doing a lot of that in the last 24 hours. Silly corporation of his.  
  
“Look,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could tell he’d sobered himself up, “wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”  
  
Of course he would.  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
“I’m not,” he sighed, “I’m not really anywhere yet. I’ve been discorporated and can’t get my old body back.”  
  
“Right. Fire.”  
  
“What? Oh! Oh goodness, Crowley no!”  
  
Stuff happened, he’d said. He thought he lost him. He thought he _burned_. Had he gotten there while the building was still in flames? Had he grabbed the prophecies not by choice but because it was the only thing not destroyed? Aziraphale pictured it. Crowley in the middle of the bookshop, looking for him, calling for him. He couldn’t bear it.  
  
”No, I didn’t—it wasn’t the fire that did it. Crowley, my dear, I didn’t burn.”  
  
“You…you didn’t?”  
  
“No!” Aziraphale reached out to him but couldn’t make contact. “No it was a—a heavenly portal. I stepped into it before I was ready. Just sort of. Poofed my corporation.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Didn’t feel a thing, my dear.”  
  
“S’good…”  
  
“Crowley, I promise, I’m okay. I’m going to make my way back.”  
  
“…kay.”  
  
He wished he could see him, could see his face. “We need to get to Tadfield Air Base.”  
  
“Right. Wait, why?”  
  
“That’s where it’s all happening. Read the notes I’ve left, it’s all there. I’ll meet you there but we’re both going to have to get a bit of a wiggle-on.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _Tadfield_. Air Base?”  
  
“I heard _that_. It was the ‘wiggle-on’.”  
  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Crowley!” Aziraphale slapped his hand over his mouth. The vague haze of bodies around him seemed to fade away. “Crowley?” No response. He wondered if the demon had heard his slip. “Really, Aziraphale,” he said to himself. “Twice in one day?”  
  
He left the area, off in search of a receptive vessel. He had to no time to waste. Crowley was on his way to the air base, he knew Aziraphale was safe, they just had to meet up, find Adam, thwart Armageddon, kiss, they were _going_ to _kiss_ , and then…well he wasn’t sure what was going to happen after that. But he felt, for the first time in a long time, a little hopeful.  



	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter that many, MANY of you have been waiting for and for many different reasons. I hope it meets your expectations <3  
> Content warning for talk of war/trying to stay safe and off-screen fighting.

-2019, Saturday, The Last Day of The World-  
-The Road to Tadfield-

  
The Bentley was on fire. It was taking everything Crowley had to keep it in one piece. His hands were more claw than anything else. His eyes full amber. His hair billowed behind him, up in the air, the edges bright like embers as they burned. It wasn’t enough, the car wasn’t going to make it. It was still too much, _he_ wasn’t going to make it. He could feel his hands shake, his corporation desperate to come apart at the seams, to let go, to let his true form spill forth and breathe.  
  
Crowley bared his teeth. He could do this. Aziraphale kept his promise. He found him. Now they just had to make their way to each other again. Then they would stop Armageddon. He wasn’t sure how, he hoped the angel had some plan in those notes of his, something that boiled down to more than just appealing to the Anti-Christ’s better nature. Because if that didn’t work...  
  
Didn’t matter. Aziraphale was coming back.  
  
Aziraphale was, finally, coming to him.  
  
Everything else was static as far as he was concerned. Everything else could be figured out later. Nothing else mattered if Aziraphale was going to be there. He was going to work with him. They were going to do this together.  
  
Something loud and metal and probably necessary for the proper function of his vehicle clattered in the road.  
  
Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel.  
  
He shut his eyes.  
  
And despite his best efforts not to, he thought of everything that had led up to the moments to come. Because no matter how hard he’d worked in the last six millennia, no matter how much he loved the Aziraphale of now, no matter all the ways he’d redefined himself, he couldn’t forget the pain of Falling. They were going to defy Heaven and Hell, challenge it all, and a part of Crowley couldn’t help but fear how much farther he could Fall.  
  
How far Aziraphale could fall... He didn’t think God would take kindly to be defied a second time. He shut his eyes and he remembered because even though Aziraphale didn’t know it, he’d risked everything for Crowley, and the demon was able now, he was strong enough now, to do the same.  
  
  


-Before Time-  
-Heaven-

  
  
He remembered everything. Every conversation. Every laugh. Every assignment taken. Every harmless adventure when no one was looking. Every book read. Every stolen look. He remembered it all.  
  
Except his name.  
  
His name and the name of any Fallen. It echoed back at him in the corners of his mind like white noise. Like an out-of-tune radio, just enough of an elusive whisper to drive someone mad with hope.  
  
“###,” Uriel said.  
  
He didn’t look up from his work.  
  
“ _###_ ,” she repeated, adding a bit of bite to his name.  
  
“Yeeeees, Uriel?”  
  
“Are you still working on that nebula?”  
  
“These things take time.”  
  
“Technically,” she said smugly, “we have no concept of time.”  
  
“Then,” he said, wrangling a particularly petulant star, “why are you in such a rush?”  
  
Uriel opened their mouth to respond and instead let out an annoyed groan, looking past him. “Ugh, he’s back again.”  
  
He looked in the direction Uriel had been glaring and spotted an angel off to the side, hands clasped in front of them, as they watched meekly while the others worked to shape galaxies.  
  
Muttering, “Where’s Gabriel,” Uriel stalked off.  
  
He turned to the angel nearest him. They were a bit shorter, dark brown hair cut so close to their head it was practically nonexistent, brilliant red eyes. They spent much of their star building time working together or at least near one another so they could chat idly. He always talked more than they did but he suspected they liked to listen. At least they never complained about it. Well, not seriously.  
  
He would spend the next six millennia knowing them only as Beelzebub, but in that moment, in these memories, they were #.  
  
“Hey,” he said. “Psst. #.”  
  
“Whaaaaat?”  
  
“Who’s that?”  
  
“Who’s who?”  
  
“Over there,” he said with a jerk of his chin. “Hiding.”  
  
# looked over their shoulder and immediately let out a groan not unlike the one Uriel had made. “I don’t know. Az…Azren? Azr…Aziraphale, I think.”  
  
“Why’s he hiding like that?”  
  
“Because he knows better.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“He wrecks things, ###. Everytime someone’s let him anywhere near their work he manages to destroy it just by being near it.”  
  
He frowned, looking back at that angel. Aziraphale. He was practically on his tiptoes, trying to see what was happening, but keeping far away. His hands and fingers were in constant motion as he rung them together. His hair was a fluff of curls. It made him think of the clouds that were getting added to Earth. His eyes were so blue.  
  
“ _Him_?”  
  
“Yup,” # said, popping the ‘p’.  
  
“I find that hard to believe.”  
  
They shrugged.  
  
### raised his arm, catching the nervous angel’s attention. “Hey!”  
  
“No,” # said in a fierce whisper, “no no nono! What are you _doing_?”  
  
“Aziraphale!”  
  
He looked over at ###, shock plain on his face, and then he looked around as though there were any other angel with his name.  
  
“Don’t! Don’t bring him over here!”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“He’s a solider. All they do is destroy things.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t—ugh! I don’t know! That’s their job.”  
  
### wasn’t able to put too much thought to that as Aziraphale had come up to them or well, near them. He still stood a good ten feet away.  
  
“You can come closer,” ### said.  
  
“I don’t,” oh his voice was just as soft as his hair looked, “I mean, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” His gaze shifted to # who gathered up their work and moved further away.  
  
“Oh don’t mind them,” ### said with a smile, “I think there’s something stuck in their halo.”  
  
“I _heard_ that!”  
  
### gestured to his work, “Have you tried?”  
  
“Oh no, no. I don’t, I don’t have the,” he shrugged, “the hands for it.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous. Do you want to try?”  
  
“I…it’s not what I’m made for.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Um.”  
  
###’s eyebrows rose.  
  
“Well, I guess there’s no harm…”  
  
# scoffed loudly and Aziraphale seemed to shrink further into himself.  
  
“Ignore them,” ### said. “Here, take these.” He spilled a handful of starmatter into Aziraphale’s cupped hands.  
  
“Oh! Oh dear, I don’t, uh—“  
  
“Now, you string them together.”  
  
“I…I’m not sure this is a good idea. They say that I’m a soldier and that I destroy and that’s all I’m meant to—“  
  
“You’re an angel.”  
  
“Well yes, but—“  
  
“No buts. You’re an angel. Everything else, everything they tell you you are, is secondary.”  
  
“I—“  
  
“And I’ll remind you of that whenever you need me to.”  
  
Aziraphale stared at him, eyes wide. ### had his titles, his designations, his assignments, but didn’t let any of that define him, he refused. There was so much more to be, so many options.  
  
“Now,” ### said, “here.”  
  
He dipped his fingers into the starmatter that sat restless in Aziraphale’s cupped hands. His movements were careful and patient as he gently weaved a few together in a simple pattern. He let it linger a moment before dismantling it and returning the pieces back to the pool. Then he tilted Aziraphale’s hands so that all of the starmatter settled into one hand and he guided the other to dip into it.  
  
The angel’s movements were stiff and his fingers refused to bend. ### had to move so that he stood beside Aziraphale and rested the angel’s hand on top of his, so that he could feel how his fingers moved. They did that for a while and together, slowly, they put together a very, very small galaxy.  
  
“Oh!”  
  
“See, angel?”  
  
Aziraphale looked up at him and ### was treated to the first of many, many smiles. It was so warm. It sparked something in him he wasn’t sure he truly understood, much less could name. He smiled back and for the first time in a long time felt it feel true all the way through the core of him.  
  
“You hold onto that for now. Here, let me show you what I’m working on,” he said and reached into a small pocket of space, pulling out a few galaxies. He went through each of them, telling Aziraphale what he was calling them for now. He knew they would get changed, the work had to be approved of course, but he liked naming them first. It gave him something to speak out as he whispered to them. Whispered encouraging words, soft declarations.  
  
It helped them grow, you see.  
  
“That’s wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “I would love to know how…”  
  
He trailed off, his eyes going wide. ###’s gaze shifted down to Aziraphale’s clasped hands. Aziraphale looked down as well.  
  
“Oh no…” Slowly he opened his hands. Crushed bits of starmatter fell away and in the center of his hands was a small…well…absence. An absence of space.  
  
### pinched it gently between forefinger and thumb and held it up to get a good look. As he did, the absence came near one of his galaxies and it was sucked into the nothingness.  
  
Aziraphale gasped.  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Oh look, see? That’s what I do. I destroy things.”  
  
“Oh?” ### watched as several strands of his hair started to gravitate toward the little speck.  
  
“Look at it! It’s just sucking everything up.”  
  
“I wonder where it goes.”  
  
“Where it goes,” Aziraphale repeated, deadpan.  
  
“Yeah. Have you been to Earth yet?”  
  
“No. Not yet. It’s not finished though.”  
  
“No, no but they have these amazing things called lakes and ponds and if you fill them too much, they overflow.”  
  
“Ok…”  
  
“Unless,” continued ###, “they have a little wiggly bit. A stream or a, I think it’s being called a river? Either way. Those wiggly bits take the excess somewhere else.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked at him, clearly not grasping his point.  
  
### held up the bit of nothingness. “So either _this_ is merely not full yet _or_ …there’s a wiggly bit taking it all somewhere else.”  
  
“Where?” Aziraphaled asked.  
  
He grinned, “Now _that_ is an excellent question.”

*

  
  
“###, don't you think this is getting a little ridiculous?” # stood in front of ###, who sat perched on the edge of nothing in particular, a bit of cloud maybe.  
  
“What? My hair?”  
  
“It is rather long,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“We are meant to be testing out these human forms, see what they’re capable of before they’re put to use down there. I want to see how long my hair can grow.”  
  
“At least let me braid it, get it out of the way.”  
  
“Yeah,” # said, “braid it, whatever. _Anything_.”  
  
“Did you two…just agree on something?”  
  
Aziraphale and # looked at one another.  
  
“Maybe,” said # with a shrug.  
  
### turned to Aziraphale, “You traitor!” He pointed at #, “And you! Traitor as well! Plotting behind my back!” There was no venom to his words, in fact he could barely keep from laughing.  
  
“If I were behind your back, your hair would be cut already.”  
  
Aziraphale chuckled.  
  
“Y’know,” ### said, “I don’t think I like the two of you getting along. It doesn’t bode well for me.”  
  
# slid over to Aziraphale, leaning an elbow on his shoulder. “Too bad. We’re best friends now. Inseparable.”  
  
“No, no no nono,” ### said as he got up and situated himself between them. # jumped up and out of the way, flapping their wings to give them a few extra feet. In his haste to push # away, ### stepped on some of his hair, yanking his head, which only made # and Aziraphale laugh more.  
  
They were cut short by a stern and deliberate, “Ahem.”  
  
“Gabriel!” # said, still laughing.  
  
“I’m sure there’s something all of you could be doing,” Gabriel said.  
  
“We are,” said ###. “We’re testing the capabilities of these bodies.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Laughter?” offered Aziraphale.  
  
### struggled to hide his grin.  
  
“C’mon, Gabriel,” # said as they dropped to their feet. “You should try it sometime.” They stood in front of the archangel and put a finger each at the corners of his mouth, pushing up gently. “See? Doesn’t that feel nice?”  
  
His expression didn’t change.  
  
### thought he might actually bite #’s fingers off.  
  
“C’mooon,” # said with a small wiggle. “You can do iiiit.”  
  
And then ### saw the slightest quiver of Gabriel’s lip. “Is that—“  
  
“Sshshsh,” said #, “you’ll scare him off.”  
  
Gabriel smacked #’s hands away, “That’s enough of that. I came to remind all of you that it is ill-advised to enter the Archives of the Almighty.”  
  
### looked away. He didn’t want to hear it, not again. Not from Gabriel. The archangel wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t hear him out.  
  
“Is that clear?”  
  
Unable to stop himself ### said, “Ill-advised or strictly forbidden?”  
  
“###,” said Gabriel, a warning in his voice.  
  
“They’re two different things,” pressed ###.  
  
“Are you questioning—“  
  
“Are questions not allowed? Because if not, you just asked one so I guess you’re in trouble too.”  
  
“You—“  
  
“Okay,” # cut in. “Ok. Let’s, c’mon Gabriel. I want to show you what I’m working on. You can tell me it’s all wrong and I need to start over, yeah?”  
  
The archangel glared down at ###, who looked away with a scoff.  
  
For a while, it was just him and Aziraphale. They sat in silence. ### didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure how they would react. Many of the angels did what they were told, exactly as they were told, no questions asked.  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I uh, I have questions too,” he said quietly.  
  
### sat up, “Really?”  
  
Aziraphale nodded.  
  
“Like what?”  
  
His hands moved to his lap, nervously clasped together. “I don’t know. I…stupid questions.”  
  
“Tell me, angel. Please?”  
  
“I just, I wonder why the colors are the way they are down there. It doesn’t match up here. And She’s putting a garden and it’s beautiful but…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“Why is there a _wall_ around it? What’s the point of that? They could just fly right—“  
  
“The wings aren’t staying. When the humans are put down there, they won’t have them like this.”  
  
“Really? Where did you hear that?”  
  
### shifted, pulling some of his hair over his shoulder and fiddling with it. “I…read it. In Their notes.”  
  
“In the, in the _Archives_? You’re the reason Gabriel was just telling us—“  
  
“It wasn’t just _me_.”  
  
“Who else?”  
  
“Lucifer showed it to me. Showed me how to get in. # came once too. I can show you, if you like?”  
  
“Oh, oh no no, I don’t think I’m…well, quite brave enough to-to disobey like that.”  
  
“You know what I wonder?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Why put a door on something if it’s not meant to be opened?”  
  
“I don’t know…”  
  
The silence settled over them once more.  
  
“I’m…sorry I’m not brave and-and adventurous like you.”  
  
### looked over at Aziraphale. His brow was furrowed deep, his finger tips white from the way he was clenching his hands.  
  
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward and pressing a thumb gently between the angel’s brow, smoothing it up. “You’re you. I’m not asking you to be anything other than that.”  
  
“I’d…I’d love to know what you read. Would you tell me about it? Please?”  
  
“Of course, angel.” He pulled his hair forward on either side, “I’ll sneak in under the cover of my hair.”  
  
Aziraphale chuckled, his hands finally stilling.  
  
“They’ll never see me.”  
  
“You do know your hair is red?”  
  
“I’ll just glide right in, read a few notes and entries, and glide right back out.”  
  
“That simple?”  
  
“That simple. And then I’ll find you and I’ll recite everything I’ve read.”  
  
“What if I don’t understand it?”  
  
“We can figure it out together.”  
  
Aziraphale’s hands unfolded and rested flat in his lap, “That sounds wonderful.”  
  
### smiled, “I’ve gotta go. I’ll come find you lat—“  
  
“###.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I…” he glanced around them. “I have another question.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“I’m a solider.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Who am I supposed to fight?”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“There’s just us, ###.” There was a slight hitch to Aziraphale’s voice. He’d been thinking about this for some time and ### wasn’t sure what conclusions he had reached but they clearly upset him. “What am I training for?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“That’s what I wonder…”  
  
### reached over and took his hand, “I don’t think that’s a stupid question at all.”

  
  


*

  
  
### sat with #, the two of them watching the other angels move around, performing their assigned tasks, talking, experimenting. Someone had built a structure they were calling a swing and claimed it felt like flying but without actually flying and others were lining up to try it out.  
  
Although they never spoke much in Heaven, ### would later know that angel as Dagon.  
  
“So,” said #, “how’s it going with your soldier?”  
  
“Wha?”  
  
# jerked their chin and ### looked in that direction to see Aziraphale off with a few others, smiling that nervous smile of his, a bow held loosely in one hand. He’d complained to ### about it once. He didn’t like it. He said he preferred his sword, if he _had_ to choose a weapon. Said it felt less impersonal.  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” ### said, after staring at Aziraphale for far too long to be played off as casual.  
  
“You don’t get…worried? That others will talk? Think it weird, you hanging around with some random soldier?”  
  
“He’s not random.”  
  
“Flouncing off to be Known and—“  
  
“Oi, we have _not_!”  
  
# blinked at that, head tilted. “Really? Why not?”  
  
“Look, are you admonishing this or encouraging it?”  
  
“Neither,” # said with a shrug. “I don’t care either way. I just thought you two would have started with that.”  
  
“It…hasn’t come up.”  
  
“How has it not? That’s how most of us _met_. That’s how _we_ met.”  
  
“Yeah but it’s different when we’re all poofed into existence at the same time and need to figure out where one begins and the other ends and—“  
  
“And Knowing happens to feel real nice in the process.”  
  
“Shh!” ### hissed, “What if he hears you? I don’t bother you about you and Gabriel, you know. Have you even told him yet how you fe—“  
  
“We’re not talking about _me_ ,” # cut in, flushed. “Besided even if we were, Gabriel and I are both archangels. _He’s_ just…” They gestured vaguely toward Aziraphale.  
  
### didn’t hear the rest of what his friend had to say because he was too busy looking at Aziraphale. At those ridiculous curls of his. With one hand on the bow he couldn’t quite settle into his normal, nervous posture of hands clasped at his front, so instead he had a furrow in his brow (that ### wanted to smooth away) while his other hand clutched at his robes. He was always so nervous and unsure. Well, not always. Not when they were together and talking and laughing. His smile wide and brilliant. The way the blue of his eyes sparkled.  
  
How anyone could look at Aziraphale and think he was _just_ anything was beyond him.

  
  


*

  
  
The two did Know each other, eventually. It started, at first, with laughter. Joy and happiness so profound it literally left cracks at the edges. It continued with curiosity. An interest in seeing, in sharing. It finished with understanding, with a shared knowledge of each other, of their wants and needs, their desires. It was perfect in every way it was meant to be and in more ways they hadn’t anticipated. And when they were able, willing, to pull apart, to detangle one from another and squeeze their forms back into the human corporations they had, ### had used his shaking hands to add a bit of stardust to Aziraphale’s halo. And the angel grinned and the two almost lost themselves in each other again.  
  
It was perfect.  
  
Then they discovered something new. Something that, for a while, was only theirs.  
  
### and Aziraphale sat in a star system not too far from Earth, it’d become their meeting spot, away from the judgemental eye of Gabriel or the needling of #, where Aziraphale was able to relax and breathe and they asked each other questions that often times neither had the answer to.  
  
“I went to the Archives again,” ### said.  
  
Aziraphale sighed, “Lucifer is going to get you—“  
  
“No, I went by myself this time.”  
  
“You’re going to get trouble.”  
  
“Who gets in trouble for being curious? That’s silly.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“So you _don’t_ want to know what I learned?”  
  
“Oh hush, of course I do.”  
  
### smiled and sat up, “Here, let me show up.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Sweeping his hair out of the way, ### pushed up to his knees and knelt facing Aziraphale. The angel’s hands sat calmly in his lap and he looked up at ###, eyes bright with curiosity, a bit of a smirk already on his lips. ### placed a hand on either side of Aziraphale’s face, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to the angel’s.  
  
He held there for a moment, eyes searching Aziraphale’s before he sat back again.  
  
Aziraphale blinked. “Is…that it?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s called a ‘kiss’. It’s something for the humans.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“It’s supposed to feel nice. Did it not feel nice? I must’ve done it wrong… What did it feel like?”  
  
“It felt like you pushed your mouth against mine. Is that all there is to it? Just…” He pressed the tips of his pointer fingers together, “smoosh?”  
  
“I think there’s more but I didn’t get to read those notes before I had to sneak back out.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
The angel’s brow furrowed as he thought, it was different from when he was unsure, or worried, or nervous. ### loved watching him think, the subtle dart of his eyes as he tried to figure things out, fit them into place. It was one of the best parts of sharing what he read in the Archives.  
  
“Why the mouth?” Aziraphale asked at last.  
  
“I don’t know. Doesn’t have to be, I don’t think. You can kiss anywhere.”  
  
He looked around them, “Anywhere?”  
  
“On the _body_.”  
  
“Oh yes, that makes more sense I suppose. No use in trying to kiss the sun.”  
  
“Like this,” ### said, leaning forward once more. The fingertips of one hand gently touched Aziraphale’s chin while he pressed his lips to his cheek. Well, more the corner of his mouth than cheek. He sat back again. “Was that better?”  
  
“No, still weird.”  
  
### let out a huff, feeling a little silly and more than a little frustrated. “Well _you_ try and figure out the perfect spot then.”  
  
Aziraphale tapped a finger to his lips as he thought. “Does it have to be on bare skin?”  
  
“I think so? There wasn’t anything on that one way or the other. I hadn’t thought of it, honestly.”  
  
“Okay…what about…” Aziraphale sat up a bit and gently slid the collar of ###’s robe aside before pressing his lips to ###’s shoulder.  
  
It did feel weird. Warm though. And there was something to be said for the sight of Aziraphale’s curls right there, a breath away.  
  
“Well?” he asked as he sat back.  
  
“You’re right, that’s really weird.”  
  
“See!”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“Your turn,” Aziraphale said with a tilt of his head.  
  
He had to be doing something wrong. It was supposed to feel nice. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant. Nice like the satisfaction of a job well done? Nice like a good laugh together? Nice like the instant, explosive warmth of a star coming to life?  
  
What was _nice_?  
  
“Oh!” He said and kissed the bridge of Aziraphale’s nose, “There.”  
  
“What? Why _there_?”  
  
“Because I like your nose. I like the shape of it.”  
  
“I—wha—yo— _why_?” Aziraphale managed to get out. His cheeks had turned pink. It looked nice on his skin. ### wondered what it meant though. He made a mental note to try and look it up in the Archives next time he went.  
  
“Don’t have a reason why,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t need one.”  
  
“Ugh. That’s ridic— _you’re_ ridiculous.”  
  
“Your turn.”  
  
“Alright,” Aziraphale sat up straight, lips pursed as he thought. “Oh,” he said, voice low and a grin creeping across his face, “Oh, I know.”  
  
“Uh oh,” ### said.  
  
### had learned, very quickly, that despite his nervousness and general want to stay to himself, Aziraphale had a bit of mischeviousness to him. He’d helped play several pranks on # and had even assisted (with the planning, but not the actual undertaking) of one on Uriel. ### knew that small smile on the angel’s face meant he’d come up with something he thought quite clever indeed.  
  
Aziraphale took one of ###’s hands and kissed the knuckle of his smallest finger. And then the next. And the next and the next and finished on his thumb.  
  
“Wha?”  
  
He then lifted the other hand and repeated the process. “Well,” he said, “ _I_ like your hands.”  
  
“My _hands_? Why?” It never at all occurred to ### that Aziraphale could turn his own wods back at him, but the angel didn’t.  
  
“Because you create beautiful things with them,” he said.  
  
### huffed. “Now _you’re_ being ridiculous.”  
  
“You started it,” he said, smirk still firmly in place. “Your turn.”  
  
“My tu—I hope you know that now I have ten kisses to figure out!”  
  
“Oh that’s so awful for you, truly. My condolences.”  
  
“You—oooh, oh I know.” It was ###’s turn to smirk as he leaned in.  
  
“Don’t you dare, no!”  
  
He kissed the bridge of Aziraphale’s nose. And again.  
  
“Stop it!” he said around laughter.  
  
And again.  
  
“You’re a _fiend_!”  
  
He kissed his cheek. The corner of his eye.  
  
“Are you quite done?” Aziraphale asked, half-heartedly batting him away.  
  
“Nope, got five left.”  
  
“Oh for—“  
  
He kissed his chin. He kissed his forehead. He dipped down and kissed a shoulder. He kissed his neck.  
  
“Ah-ah!” Aziraphale said, “Last one!”  
  
### shrugged, “May as well finish where I started,” he said and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.  
  
And something changed. Something clicked. Or maybe some notes were just re-written. But ### felt a flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt before and his eyes closed with it. The warmth he’d felt was no longer superficial but seemed to spread throughout him, fill him.  
  
Aziraphale made a small sound and ### pulled back.  
  
“Oh…” the angel said, his eyes slowly opening, “that was different this time.”  
  
“Yeah,” said ###, a little breathless. “It felt like…”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“They get to have that?”  
  
“I don’t know…certainly seems like it.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“I um… that is…did you want to…for the sake of-of learning we should probably retry the ones from before?”  
  
“You want me to keep kissing you, angel?”  
  
“I think I do, yes.”  
  
### kissed the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, as he had before.  
  
Aziraphale shifted back that same bit of fabric and kissed ###’s shoulder as he had before but oh it was different now. And again ### found himself looking at those wonderful curls only this time he reached out and put his fingers in them, gentle and exploring and Aziraphale leaned into it.  
  
### kissed him again. This was what nice was. It was all of those things and so much more.  
  
And so it was that two angels introduced the idea of kissing to their corner of the universe on a small set of stars that thousands and thousands of years later a human would look at and name Alpha Centauri.

  
  


*

  
  
“I asked a question.” Aziraphale sat in front of ### finishing the long, long braid he’d managed to corrale all that red hair into.  
  
“Oh? To whom?”  
  
“The Metatron. I asked if I could be stationd on Earth. I’m a soldier so…what if I guarded the garden?”  
  
“What from?”  
  
“Who knows? Who cares? I’ll get to be near all those wonderful flowers!” He abandoned the braid to look up at ###. “Have you seen them? _That’s_ where She put the colors of Heaven! There’s so many of them. And-and you told me about rivers and lakes?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Have you seen a waterfall yet?”  
  
“I’ve seen water fall into—“  
  
“No, no, I mean a _waterfall_. Oh, it’s breathtaking.”  
  
“I think They’re going to do it soon.”  
  
“Make the humans?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“We’ll go down together when it happens. I’ll show you the garden and the waterfall, oh I do think you’ll love it. Will you come with me? Please?”  
  
“Of course, angel,” ### said, placing a very soft kiss on his lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  
  
But it didn’t happen.  
  
Because before the first rain on Earth, there was rain in Heaven.

  
  
### ran. He didn't know where to, he only knew he had to go, he had to find some kind of shelter, somewhere to hide before it started again. Whatever it was. It wasn't like the waters they'd used to fill the creeks and lakes and seas and oceans, it was awful and deadly. It could--the way it--he shut his eyes, trying hard not to think about it but the images flashed through his mind anyway. His friends, people he'd worked with, Heavens, even angels he'd never spoken a single word to but knew their faces, knew their voices, knew where they worked, passed them every day, all gone.  
  
Up ahead a few structures came into view. A haphazard mess of stone and pillars, archways, gates, and bridges, the workshop for designing the garden and the wall that was meant to go around it. He hadn't realized that was where his feet were taking him but he was glad for it. A quick snap of his fingers rearranged a few of the stones to form a tiny little cave which he scrambled into and hugged his knees to his chin.  
  
Oh.  
  
There was blood on his arms. It wasn't his. Somehow that didn't make it any better. He folded his arms against his stomach, hiding them from his view. He couldn't look at it, couldnt' think about it.  
  
Where was Aziraphale? Was he safe? #? Lucifer? Why was this happening? _What_ was happening? He had to find them, find Aziraphale, but...he was so scared. There was no hiding from the rains, he'd seen how they burned right through an angel's wings. He wasn't even sure the stones would protect him.  
  
He couldn't hide forever though. What if Aziraphale was looking for shelter too?  
  
But...he was a soldier. And the rains didn't hurt the soldiers. He'd seen how the soldirers were striking down angels as they ran, as they begged. ### pulled his wings around him, trying to ignore the splatters on the white feathers, why was this happening? What was—  
  
"--happening?!"  
  
His head jerked up. It was #!  
  
"Gabriel wait, stop!" From where ### hid, he saw # fly down to the ground, practically dragging Gabriel by the arm. "What's happening?"  
  
“Lucifer tried to lead a rebellion against the Almighty. We’re putting a stop to it.”  
  
“A…a what?” # stammered what ### was thinking. “A rebellion? To do what? To what end?”  
  
“I don’t know and I don’t care. All that matters is that all those who sided with them are being cast out.”  
  
“Out? To…where? Earth?”  
  
“No, somewhere new. Somewhere worse.”  
  
“But I don’t—there’s got to be a way to fix it, to talk to Her or—“  
  
“This is _good_ , #! Don’t you see? This will fix Heaven. She’s going to cast out all of the traitors and dissenters and anyone that questions Her. I made sure of it.”  
  
### put a hand over his mouth. Anyone who asked questions?  
  
“What does that mean?” # asked. “Gabriel what did you _do_?”  
  
“I told Her there were angels sneaking into the Archives. Asking questions, like Lucifer. I told her they were all working together.”  
  
“No! That’s not true!”  
  
“We don’t know that! It’s for the best, #, trust me. Lucifer and his ilk and—“  
  
“And anyone who went into the Archives…”  
  
“Yes!” Gabriel cried, a mad grin on his face. “Yes! It’s perf…wait. #. You didn’t.”  
  
# shifted on their feet, wrapping their arms around themselves, “Just…a few times.”  
  
“ _Why?_ ”  
  
“I was curious! There’s nothing wrong with that! Why would They make us curious if it’s wrong?”  
  
### pressed his other hand over the first, trying desperately to keep his sobs in. What did getting cast out mean? Is that why the horrible rain? The fighting? The _soldiers_? Was this Lucifer’s plan or God’s? Lucifer didn’t create soldiers. Lucifer hadn’t been training them in all sorts of weapons. Lucifer had only held open a door.  
  
And all ### did was read.  
  
“Gabriel…don’t.”  
  
### blinked back his tears and peered out of his shelter to see Gabriel taking several steps back.  
  
“I…” he said, “I can’t be seen with you.”  
  
“Gabriel…” # pleaded.  
  
“No. Don’t follow me.”  
  
“But—“  
  
With a flap of his wings he was off the ground and with two more he was airborne and fleeing.  
  
“Wait!” # cried and followed after.  
  
Everyone who went to the archives…everyone who asked questions…everyone who…what? Had a thought they weren’t told to have? ### remembered that angel, and their swing. Was that enough to be killed over?  
  
The stomp of boots made ### flinch. Only the soldiers had armored footwear like that. He curled in on himself as several angels ran past, spears and swords brandished.  
  
But one stopped. He heard their footsteps coming closer as the others receded.  
  
No. No no no no please no.  
  
They stopped just a foot or so away, ### stared at their armored feet and legs. What had he been thinking, he’d put himself in a literal corner. All they had to do was stab their sword or spear or—  
  
“###?”  
  
“A-Aziraphale?”  
  
The angel knelt down and ### was faced with clear blue eyes full of worry and that crease in his brow and those perfect curls and he burst into tears.  
  
Aziraphale reached into the little alcove, helping ### to his feet, holding him tight.  
  
“Did you see,” ### sobbed, “did you see the rain? What it—“  
  
“I saw, I saw. I…we’ve got to get you somewhere safe.”  
  
“ _Where_? This is our home, _this_ is supposed to be safe!”  
  
“I know, I know, we—“  
  
Another armored angel ran up to them, “Sir. You’re needed by the Archives, that’s where they’re mounting their main assault.” He reached for ###, “I can take care of this one.”  
  
“No!” Aziraphale shifted to stand in front of ###. A sword materialized in his hand.  
  
“Sir…”  
  
“Go on ahead, protect the Archives but remain on the defensive _only_. I won’t have us killing our friends and—“  
  
“But—“  
  
“Go!” He shouted, his wings flaring out to their full span.  
  
The soldier cast one last glance at ### before running off.  
  
Aziraphale turned to face him and ### had to stop himself from flinching. He was so scared. Scared of everything that was happening and, if he was honest, a little scared of Aziraphale. He’d never heard him speak that way. Heard his voice like that. He’d forgotten how powerful the angel truly was. He’d intentionally ignored what he was made for, what he was capable of, how easily weapons fit in his hands.  
  
And then Aziraphale reached forward and placed one of those hands on ###’s cheek and he was reminded how easily _he_ fit in the angel’s hands, how kind he was, how gentle.  
  
“No one is going to harm you,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t let it happen. Alright?”  
  
### nodded.  
  
“Come with me,” he said as he took ###’s hand and started to lead him away, “I know somewhere you can hide until we get all this under contro—“  
  
### stopped short, tugging Aziraphale’s hand.  
  
The angel turned to look at him, “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Something, ow, something’s pulling my foot.” Panic flared quick and powerful in ###’s chest. He looked down to see his feet disappearing into nothingness. What was below them? There was nothing below them, it was, where was he, what was pulling on him? Another yank sent pain up his leg. “Ah! Aziraphale! It-it burns!” He held tight onto the angel.  
  
Aziraphale’s sword disappeared so that he could grab onto ###, wrapping his arms around him. “I don’t understand, what’s—“  
  
He was cut off by a scream. Somewhere off in the distance. And then another. And another and something went barreling past them, too fast to make out, the wind of it, whipping ###’s hair around. Before they could question it another scream rang out, it sounded closer this time and another form shot past them. And another. And—  
  
They were angels. All around them angels were plummeting down, screaming, many of their wings on fire as they barreled, tumbled. One fell past them so close that ### felt the heat of the fire and he screamed, nails digging into Aziraphale’s forearms.  
  
The pull was only getting stronger, only hurting more.  
  
“No, no no no,” Aziraphale sank to his knees as he struggled to keep ### from sinking any further.  
  
A light, blinding and bright, shined down on them. Aziraphale looked up, behind ###, tears streaming down his face. “ _Why_?”  
  
There was a response. ### could _feel_ that there was a response but…he couldn’t hear it. Why…why couldn’t he hear Them?  
  
“NO!” Aziraphale’s wings flared once more only this time all of his eyes were present and open and fierce and for the first time ### had ever seen, completely still and locked on a single spot. They were full of rage and looking in one direction.  
  
Up at the light.  
  
“I DON’T ACCEPT THAT!” Aziraphale screamed.  
  
There was a flash and ### shut his eyes against it but he could feel Azirpahale’s hands yanked from him as he was pushed back. He opened his eyes and was able to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale trying to push to his feet, the force of the light barely keeping him down, and then ### slipped below.  
  
He was falling.  
  
The brightness of Heaven was gone, all around him there was nothing but darkness. And pain. His eyes hurt. Why did his eyes hurt? His limbs felt heavy. Like they were sinking faster and further then he was. Then…they didn’t feel like anything at all. Why couldn’t he feel his arms? His legs? There was something wrong with his eyes. Why did they burn? He tried to cover them and he couldn’t move his arms, he couldn’t feel his arms, he couldn’t…he couldn’t _see_ his arms. Everything was so dark. All around him he could hear the screams of other angels as they fell. He didn’t scream, he couldn’t, he couldn’t find the strength. He could smell the feathers of their wings as they burned. He was heaving, gasping. He watched as an angel some distance away tried to open their wings to slow their fall and the bones snapped, sending them tumbling into another angel. He wrapped his own wings tighter around him, around the limbs he couldn’t feel anymore, limbs he wasn’t sure he even had. He swallowed, something was wrong with his tongue, it felt weird. It hurt. He could smell it, wherever they were falling to, it smelt of fire and ash and something he didn’t know the word for yet. He kept his wings close and they didn’t catch fire but there was no avoiding the ash of the wings of other angels as they burned up. His feathers were becoming saturated in it. He thought, absently, that they would never come clean again.  
  
Before he blacked out, before he woke a writhing coiled pile of snake, surrounded by the crying, whimpering sound of the other Fallen, the last thing he saw were the fragments of his halo as it shattered, floating away into the darkness like so many stars.  
  
Burning.  
  
Brilliant.  
  
And then gone.


	33. Chapter 33

-2019, Saturday, 17 minutes until the End of the World-  
-Tadfield Air Base-

Aziraphale wanted to wring his hands, but he couldn't because he didn't _have_ hands, he had Tracy's hands and she was not a wringer-of-hands. He wanted to fiddle with his pocketwatch, but that too was gone.  
  
"Do settle down, dear. It’s like a bee in my brain."  
  
"I'm terribly sorry, it's just... I'm worried."  
  
“About your beau?"  
  
“I—well—he’s not exactly—we need to focus on saving the world, I think.”  
  
“Hmm,” said Tracy. “There always time for romance, love.”  
  
She looked over at Shadwell and Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from scoffing. That was the human that _burned his bookshop down_. He was ridiculous. He’d dealt with the man over the years but he hadn’t fully grasped just how inane he truly was. He kept waving his finger around like some sort of…daft grandparent trying to tell a stupid joke.  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “I suppose.”  
  
The sound of tires skidding made everyone turn but Aziraphale knew that sound. His grin faltered however when the Bentley rounded the corner and was…on fire. Blaring Queen as loud as it could and on fire. It came to a stop and the door swung open, Crowley stepping out.  
  
“Oh! Crowley!”  
  
“ _That’s_ him?” Tracy asked.  
  
He looked exhausted and there was a bit of a stumble to his swagger as he made his way to them. For some reason his hair was much longer than the last time he’d seen him. It went past his shoulders in frizzy, slightly scorched waves. He didn’t wear his glasses and his eyes were fully amber. As he got closer, Aziraphale looked at the book of prophecies in his hand and saw that his fingers were more claw than anything else. In fact, he could see a few patches of scales on his hand, his neck, his cheek.  
  
What had he been through to be coming apart at the edges like this?  
  
“Hey, Aziraphale. Nice dress, suits you.”  
  
“Oh!” He glanced down at his form, unable to hide how much a compliment like that meant coming from someone as fashionable and savvy as Crowley. He wanted to take him in his arms and hug him, hold him close, brush the tangles from his hair, but there wasn’t time for any of that. There was barely time to save the world.  
  
“This young man won’t let us in,” he explained.  
  
“Right, I’ll take care of it.”  
  
Crowley turned to the human but before he could say anything the gates opened and four children went zipping past on their bikes. The human ran off after them, setting off some loud alarms. They were quickly drowned out however by the sound of an explosion.  
  
Behind them, the Bentley was more flame and smoke than car.  
  
Aziraphale watched as Crowley let out a defeated sigh, “Ninety years and not a scratch. Now look at you. First dents cause by nighttime cyclists with death wishes and…hnn.”  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
Aziraphale gestured back to the entrance where the human was pointing a gun at them, yelling orders, and now a car was coming their way and even more people on foot. The demon groaned, bowing his head.  
  
“Bless it all…” He looked down at his free hand, seeming to weigh his options. Judging from how little visible skin there was on his hands around all the scales, he didn’t seem to have many.  
  
“Wait,” Aziraphale said. He pulled down with a snap, disappearing all the humans to…well he was trying very hard to think of somewhere nice but he had to admit his mind was a bit all over the place.  
  
“Thanks, angel. C’mon, we’ll take the car.”  
  
If Aziraphale thought slinging around in the Bentley while Crowley drove like a madman was terrifying, he had been woefully unprepared for riding in a car with _no roof_. He was sure they would hit the smallest pebble and he’d go flying.  
  
_I think it’s thrilling!_ Tracy squealed in their shared head.  
  
“Yes, well, I’ve already been discorporated once today, thank you very much.”  
  
“Know you don’t like it but we don’t have any time to waste,” Crowley said.  
  
They stopped before a group of people. Four children stood facing off…Aziraphale shuddered, the Four Horsemen.  
  
“That’s him,” Crowley said as they all clambered out of the vehicle, “the curly one. You have a plan, angel?”  
  
“Ah, I thought perhaps, we could appeal—“  
  
“Oh, for—“  
  
“Now look here laddie,” Shadwell said, waving his finger at Adam, “I don’t want to have to use this.”  
  
“That’s your plan, Aziraphale?”  
  
“Well—“  
  
“The horsemen are here, the antichrist is _here_ , we’re here and—“  
  
“Excuse me,” said Adam, bringing everything to a halt. “Why are you two people?”  
  
Aziraphale glanced between the boy and Crowley, “Uh. Long story. You see I was in my bookshop and—“  
  
“It’s not right. You should go back to being two separate people again.”  
  
The response that he would love nothing more but he highly doubted that Heaven would allow him a new corporation had barely formed in his head much left his mouth before Aziraphale and Tracy were separated with seemingly nothing more than a thought from Adam.  
  
“Oh!” Tracy said, “Feel all tingly.” She looked at Aziraphale and a made a face he couldn’t begin to parse and quickly shuffled over to be near Shadwell.  
  
Crowley was beside him in an instant, a hand gentle at his elbow. Azirphale looked up at him, trying to will him to hear and see every apology he had on the tip of his tongue for the last few days, the last few _decades_.  
  
And maybe he did because he said, very softly, “We’re not out of this yet, angel.”  
  
Right, so. Armageddon.  
  
“The thing is,” Adam was saying. “They’re not real. They’re just like nightmares, really.”  
  
Aziraphale watched the little girl beside Adam walk up with determination and firmly…kick War in the shin.  
  
“Oh!” he said. “Oh my that’s…”  
  
The sword fell and the girl picked it up easily, no hesitation and no fear. “I believe in peace,” she said, and then stabbed War.  
  
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said while Crowley let out a satisfied “heh” beside him.  
  
War disintegrated in a flurry of flame and the girl dropped the sword. Right away one of Adam’s other friends picked it up, targeting pollution. They watched as each friend in turn dispelled of a horseman. Clearly this Adam fellow had done alright for himself even without Crowley and Aziraphale’s intervening, to make friends like those.  
  
“Didn’t that used to be _your_ sword?” Crowley whispered.  
  
Aziraphale swallowed. He really, really didn’t want to think about how the sword he’d gifted the humans at the dawn of their time had wound up in the hands of War, a fabrication born of their persistant destructive tendencies as a creation.  
  
“I…do believe it was.”  
  
“Death,” Adam said, “this all has to stop now.”  
  
“It has stopped,” Death said calmly. “But they will be back. We are never far away. I am creation’s shadow, you cannot destroy me, that would destroy the world.” He paused, “Good day gentlemen.”  
  
He spread his wings, impossibly black, a void of color and of life, and disappeared.  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t help but think it was all very…orderly. “There,” he said, trying to fight the giddy relief that was building up in him, “you see, Crowley. It’s like I—“  
  
“Oh it isn’t over.”  
  
His shoulders sagged, he was afraid of that.  
  
“Nothing’s over. Both Heaven and Hell still want their war. You,” he approached Adam, “what was your name again?”  
  
“Adam Young.”  
  
“Adam? Ad—“ he turned to Aziraphale, “The antichrist’s name is _Adam?_ ”  
  
“I know, I know, I thought the the sa—wait did you not read my notes?”  
  
“Eeeeh,” he said, with a tilt of his head, “was trying to keep a burning car in one piece, couldn’t really flip through.”  
  
“You’re the man in the car! You stole my book!”  
  
Aziraphale looked at the two newcomers that had joined them. He recognized one…  
  
“Book girl!” Crowley said, “Catch!”  
  
He tossed, _tossed_ , the Nice & Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter through the air and to the young woman. Aziraphale was about to make a comment on _flinging_ the sole copy of the only accurate prophetic work in the world like-like a day old biscuit, when a small piece of paper fluttered down right in front of his face.  
  
He plucked it from the air, it had come from the book, and the only bit of legible text on it was “choose your faces wisely”. Aziraphale frowned. He didn’t remember reading that prophecy in his search for information on Adam. He tucked it into his waistcoat; it meant something, it had to.  
  
“What is going on out here?” the owner of the book asked.  
  
“Long story,” Crowley said, glancing about as though he was waiting for something to spring up on them. “No time.”  
  
“Try me,” she said.  
  
“Uh,” Aziraphale started, “well in the beginning, in the-the garden, well uh,” he smiled, “he was, is, a wiley serpent.” Crowley shook his head at him although the smile on his face was fond and there was laughter in his eyes. “And, and I was well, technicaly I was on apple tree duty and—“  
  
A crack of lightning split the air, cracking into the ground behind them.  
  
From it, appeared Gabriel. Beside him, the ground rumbled and ruptured and from below pushed up someone Aziraphale didn’t know. They were short though, dressed all in black with some sort of sash, he assumed it meant something in Hell as that was where they were clearly from. They glanced at Gabriel, who looked at them, and something…happened on both of their faces, although neither seemed to acknowledge it. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what it was and didn’t have time to question it as they both came toward the group.  
  
“Beelzebub,” Crowley said.  
  
Oh, so this was Beelzebub. Shorter than they imagined.  
  
“Crowley,” Beelzebub replied. “Traitor.”  
  
He chuckled but Aziraphale could hear the hesitance in it, the fear. “That’s not very nice.”  
  
“All the words I have for your are worse. After all this, after everything how could you chose Earth? Ugh, I don’t care, where’s the boy?”  
  
“That one,” Gabriel said, his terrifying smile in place. “Adam Young. Hi. Young man, Armageddon must…restart. Right now.”  
  
“It is written,” said Beelzebub, “now start the war.”  
  
Adam looked between the two of them. “You both want to end the world just to see whose gang is best?”  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t have put it better himself.  
  
“Obviously,” Gabriel said. “It’s the Great Plan.”  
  
“Not interested,” said Adam.  
  
Gabriel groaned, “You can’t just refuse to be who you are! Your birth, your destiny, they’re part of the Great Plan!”  
  
He kept saying that. The Great Plan. Just exactly how much of this was planned? How much of this, of everything that had happened, was common knowledge? A clear itinerary of events? How much of it was…oh. Ineffable.  
  
“Um,” Aziraphale said, “excuse me.” He moved over to stand beside Adam, Crowley grabbing for his arm to stop him but just missing. “You keep talking about the Great Plan.”  
  
“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, “maybe you just keep your mouth shut.”  
  
“One thing I’m not clear on—“  
  
“Wait what?” said Beelzebub.  
  
“Is that—“  
  
“Aziraphale?”  
  
He blinked. Why was Beelzebub suddenly so focused on him? Crowley had come to stand beside him, one foot half in front of him, so clearly ready to shield him from harm.  
  
“ _Aziraphale?!_ ” Beelzebub nearly screeched. “He’s. He’s the angel you were—how? _How_ did you find each other again after all this time?”  
  
“…again?” Aziraphale looked over to Crowley who kept their gaze locked on Beelzebub.  
  
“He doesn’t even remember, Crowley! What’s the _point?_ ”  
  
“We…we made something new.”  
  
Aziraphale heart clenched. New? Again? They had known each other before. And he didn’t remember it.  
  
But Crowley did.  
  
“We don’t have to hold onto what was Beelz!” Aziraphale watched Crowley plea, bits and pieces of their conversations over the years, over the centuries coming back to him, trying to click into place to form a puzzle he didn’t know the image of.  
  
_The past is the past,_ he’d said. _It’s, y’know, alright to look back on fondly every so often but I can’t, I can’t hold on to it._  
  
And before that…at Midsummer… _I’d rather spend eternity alone than trick the person I love into caring for me._  
  
And long, long before that, over oysters in Rome, Aziraphale had said please and he’d said, in a way Aziraphale now knew how to recognize as disgruntled but so incredibly fond… _Every time._  
  
He took in a shuddering gasp, unnoticed by the man next to him. They’d known each other and Crowley remembered and he didn’t and he still didn’t know what they were Before. How much of that influenced what they were now?  
  
“It’s been six _thousand_ years,” Crowley was saying to Beelzebub. “Why can’t we make something new for ourselves, why can’t—“  
  
“SHUT. UP.” Gabriel bellowed. “Always with the questions! Just stop. Talking. This war is—“  
  
“Always?” Beelzebub said. They were looking over at Gabriel with an expression Aziraphale didn’t know them well enough to parse, but even he could see the hints of pain in it. “Always?”  
  
Gabriel wouldn't meet their gaze.  
  
So the archangels remembered.  
  
“ _Gabriel_ ,” Beelzebub said.  
  
“We have a job to do,” he said through gritted teeth.  
  
“All this time…you could’ve…you never…”  
  
Crowley took a step forward, “Beelzebub, listen to me, you said She won’t let us have hope but I don’t think that’s true, I thi—“  
  
“Shut it.”  
  
He moved back again.  
  
The silence hung heavy.  
  
“The Great Plan,” Gabriel snarled, “is going to go into effect and we _will_ —“  
  
“Is that the Ineffable Plan as well?” Aziraphale asked.  
  
Crowley looked over at him, confusion on his face. But then Gabriel spluttered, “Th-they’re the same thing!” and Crowley let out a little gasp as understanding hit him.  
  
“Are they?” he asked. “I know you don’t want to ask questions Gabe but ask yourself just this one. What if you think you’re following the Great Plan but you’re actually going against God’s Ineffable Plan?”  
  
“God doesn’t play games with the universe,” he said.  
  
Aziraphale surprised himself as he scoffed out, “Really?”  
  
“Where have _you_ been?” Crowley said at the same time.  
  
“I’m done,” Beelzebub said quietly, eyes on the ground.  
  
They turned to go and Gabriel grabbed their arm, “No! This war will happen and things will finally—“  
  
“Screw you,” Beelzebub said, wrenching their arm free. “’ _You_ chose this. Not me.’ Those were your words weren’t they? Right before…”  
  
“It’s part of Their plan,” Gabriel insisted and Aziraphale really wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.  
  
Beelzebub shook their head and turned to them, “Crowley.”  
  
“I’m so sorry…” he said, and Aziraphale wondered for the first time what his relationship with Beelzebub had been like Before. Who they were to him to evoke such a genuine apology.  
  
“They will come for you,” Beelzebub said. “And I’m not going to stop them.” Then, with a poof, they were gone.  
  
Gabriel let out a frustrated groan, “You,” he rounded on Aziraphale, “I don’t know how you didn’t Fall then but you will this time.”  
  
“Why do you hate us?” Crowley said. “Why do you hate the humans so much? How can you be an angel and be so full of hate? If any one deserved…” He paused. Aziraphale knew how painful the memories of his Fall were for him. He knew Crowley would never wish that pain on anyone and yet, “if any one deserved to Fall it’s you.”  
  
Gabriel glowered at them a moment longer before disappearing with a pop.  
  
“Well,” said Tracy, making Aziraphale jump. He’d quite forgotten she was there. “Weren’t they odd?”  
  
He turned to Crowley, so many questions on his lips, when the ground started to shake beneath them.  
  
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” he cried out, “what _now_?”  
  
Crowley fell to his knees, “Oh no no, it’s Satan. They know and they are _not_ happy.”  
  
“We can’t give up now.”  
  
“Aziraphale this isn’t about Armageddon or the war this is about us, about me. We-we thwarted them, they are pissed, and we are _fucked_.”  
  
“You can do something, I know you can.”  
  
Crowley let out a laugh that was more sob than anything else as he tried to stay up right on the shaking ground. “I can’t, angel. I can’t.”  
  
“You can, you’re so smart and you’re so strong, I know you can.”  
  
“I…” He sat back on his haunches, “I’m not any of those things, angel. I’m just…I’m so tired.”  
  
Aziraphale could see the tears in his eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion in his face. He had no idea what Crowley had been through since they last saw each other in person, at the bandstand, but he knew if anyone could get them out of this, it was his demon.  
  
“I’m so tired, Aziraphale,” he said again.  
  
“I know, my dear. I know.” Aziraphale leaned over and cupped his face, careful not to brush the scales on his cheek in the wrong way. “It’s just this last thing and then…”  
  
“And then what?”  
  
Aziraphale swallowed. “Can I?”  
  
He watched the confusion on Crowley’s face shift from understanding to shock to annoyance at an alarming rate. “Now?” he asked. “ _Now?_ ”  
  
“If not now,” he couldn’t fight his grin, “then when?”  
  
“Oh, you bastard.”  
  
“That’s not a ‘no’, my dear.”  
  
“Of course it’s not. It’ll never be a ‘no’ for you, angel. But I can think of a great many other opportunities for you to—“  
  
Aziraphale pressed his mouth to his.  
  
And oh. _Oh._ The world was shaking itself apart around them and they could be moments from a very gruesome end but oh none of it mattered because Crowley was in his hands and on his lips and he could smell the brimstone and fire and that hint of his cologne and it was, God, it felt so _nice._  
  
He broke their kiss only for Crowley to grab him by the wrists and kiss him once again. It was still nothing more than the press of lips, the shared space and breath and just a hint of fear that if they moved much more than that it would all come apart.  
  
Aziraphale kept his mouth against Crowley’s and slowly raised up, bringing the demon to his feet with him. When they broke away again he saw that Crowley kept his eyes shut a moment longer, as if drinking everything in.  
  
“I believe in you, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. “I _trust_ you. I know, I know I’ve been just terribly—well I’ve been shite about showing you it but I do. And I know you can get us out of this.”  
  
Crowley took in a slow breath, a small smile on his lips, and he opened his eyes slowly.  
  
“Did you just curse?” he asked.  
  
Aziraphale laughed. He couldn’t help it. It spilled out of him so genuine and happy. Everything was quite possibly literally going to Hell and even still Crowley managed to make him laugh. Goodness how he loved him.  
  
“Please, my dear, save us?”  
  
Crowley looked down at his hands, the fingers black and clawed. He flexed them. Aziraphale watched as he shut his eyes and leaned his head back, rolling his shoulders. After a moment a slow smile crept across his face.  
  
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, and thrust his hands up into the air.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there...

-???-  
-Somewhere New-

  
Adam Young’s feet landed on soft, white sand. He blinked several times to adjust to his surroundings. The sky was blue, bluer than he’d ever seen it, even in Tadfield. There was nothing on the horizon for miles and miles.  
  
He didn’t know where he was but he did know the place hadn’t existed thirty seconds ago.  
  
A little ways ahead of him, the two grown-ups from before were finding their footing.  
  
To his left, a man in some old-fashioned kind of suit. He looked like he’d tripped out of one of those black and white romance movies his mom would sometimes watch. His wings were really pretty though.  
  
To his right, a guy in all black hunched over, trying to catch his breath. His hair was red and long. His wings were open and different from the other man’s but no less beautiful. Adam could see the stars in them. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that some of those constellations never existed, never got a chance to exist.  
  
Then the guy lurched forward, spitting up…something dark and wispy. Part shadow, part starmatter.  
  
“Crowley!” the first cried out and made to go toward him.  
  
But the other held out his hand without looking at him. “Fine, I’m fine. Just…corporation’s been through a lot that a corporation wasn’t meant to go through.” He stood up straight, “Honest, angel, I’m—“ He stopped speaking as soon as he looked at the first man.  
  
“Aziraphale…” he whispered. “Your wings.”  
  
The one to his left, this Aziraphale guy, sort of shrunk in on himself. “Yes,” he said. “I…I have been meaning to tell you.”  
  
“What _happened?_ ”  
  
Adam frowned. What was wrong with his wings? They were there and beautiful and—oh. He realized he was seeing things again that weren’t quite on the same plane he was on. He shut his eyes hard, focusing on the right now. And when he opened them again he saw what they saw: a thin, filmy substance that hung from the bones of his wings, fluttering gently in the breeze. There was a filigree sort of pattern on them, but he wasn’t sure if they could see that yet either.  
  
Oh well, they would eventually.  
  
“I…I rather think we have other things to focus on right now, my dear,” he said, and gestured toward Adam.  
  
“I don’t care, I do not _care_. Angel, what…I…are you—?“  
  
“I’m okay, Crowley, but please, not now. I can’t. Let’s just…let’s finish this.”  
  
The one on his right frowned and whipped around to him. “You,” he said, as he stalked closer. “You’re the antichrist. The real one.”  
  
“I s’pose I am,” Adam said with a shrug. “Don’t really know what I’m to do with that.”  
  
“Well right now, dear child,” said the other, moving in much more calmly, “we need you to stop the apocalypse. I mean…it’s mostly stopped I think. The war’s stopped at least? And the Horsemen are gone but I rather imagine Satan could still cause a bit of a ruckus.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Adam said, “but who _are_ you?”  
  
“Oh, right, apologies. I am Aziraphale and this,” he gestured to the man in black, “is Crowley. I’m…well, I’m an angel and—“  
  
“No you’re not.”  
  
Aziraphale stopped. Everything in him seemed to deflate. Did he not know?  
  
“Oy,” Crowley said, pulling Adam’s attention to him, “he is an angel and I am a demon and—“  
  
“No _you’re_ not.”  
  
The two looked at one another then. Adam almost felt bad for them. But he didn’t know how to explain what he was seeing. What he could feel. What he knew without knowing. They were grown-ups. They’d figure it out. He had a ton of other stuff on his mind.  
  
“Well…” Aziraphale said, squeaked really, before clearing his throat. “Well. That’s neither, uh, here nor there. At the moment. What we ought to focus on right now is that your father is coming and with him mostly likely the end of everything else.”  
  
“My dad?”  
  
“No,” Crowley said. “Your _father_.”  
  
“I can’t do anything, I’m just a kid.”  
  
“That’s not a terrible thing to be,” said Aziraphale. “We…we were afraid you’d be Hell incarnate. I’d hoped you’d be Heaven incarnate. But you’re neither. You’re _human_ incarnate.”  
  
Adam frowned. He wasn’t sure what any of that was supposed to mean to him. Did being human incarnate mean getting to play in Hogback woods with his friends? Did it mean running around with Dog? Did it mean almost mucking everything up? Scaring his friends? Making them run from him? Hope they accepted his apologies? Spend who knows how long hoping they would forgive him for being an absolute tit?  
  
Was that what it meant to be human incarnate?  
  
“Listen,” Crowley said. “You—“ he doubled over, falling to one knee.  
  
“Crowley!”  
  
“I’m fine,” he lied. Adam knew he was lying because he could see where his edges were coming apart. Where they weren’t going to fit together again if he kept going like this.  
  
The place they were in warbled at the corners, blue sky rippling like water.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice but Adam could tell Crowley felt it.  
  
“Listen to me Adam,” Crowley said, pushing back up to his feet. “The world will listen to you right now. You have incredible powers whether you know it or not, whether you fully understand it or not. You’re a bright kid—“  
  
“How do you know? That’s just something adults say.”  
  
“It’s not just something _I_ say,” Crowley said, and Adam believed him. “You were so close to ending everything, I could feel it. I could feel how close Armageddon was. The Horsemen were right there. And somehow, on your own, you pulled back. You reigned it in. And you stopped it all. With your friends!” He chuckled. “Aziraphale and I could barely communicate well enough with just the two of us and we’ve known each other six thousand years.”  
  
Aziraphale laughed gently.  
  
“You can do this.”  
  
“And whatever you choose,” Aziraphale said, “we’ll be right here with you.”  
  
“I can’t hold this much longer,” Crowely said. “Are you ready?”  
  
“No,” Adam said.  
  
“Great,” Crowley said. “Me either.”  
  
He reached up into the air, pulled down with a snap, and suddenly they were back at the airbase.  
  
Aziraphale and Crowley stood on either side of him. Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale were all still there, putting on brave faces but he knew his friends were scared. Anathema and that guy who crashed his silly looking car watched. Some old people he’d never met before huddled off to the side.  
  
And ahead of him the ground shook and cracked and split as his “Father” pushed through.  
  
That demon from before had said it was written. That awful angel said it was his destiny. But where was it written? There hadn’t exactly been a handbook for all this. No instructions. Who decided someone’s destiny? Seemed like a thing a person ought to have a say in. Adam wanted things back the way they were. He wanted to play and ride his bike. But he didn’t want to lose Dog, which he knew now was supposed to be some kind of hell...puppy.  
  
Maybe…maybe some things could go back.  
  
“You…” Satan said, “you’re my rebellious son? Come here.”  
  
“No,” Adam said. “You’re….you’re not my dad.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He didn’t want to lose the good things that came from this. Dog. Anathema and her boyfriend. The trust and love he had for his friends knowing they’d be there for him. But other things had to be fixed. A Bookshop. A car. A delivery person. It was hard. It was so hard trying to pick and choose what went back and what stayed the same and what never was.  
  
Well no, that part was easy.  
  
“You’re not my dad,” he said. “You never were.”  
  
Satan looked shocked. And then he looked angry. And he yelled and he banged his fists and really…he threw a tantrum is what he did. And then he was gone.  
  
When the smoke and the ash cleared, Adam could see his dad, his real dad’s car coming toward them and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relieved and so happy to see his fussy dad. Always puttering and warning him about messing with Tyler’s yard and to heed their neighbor but really just stay out of his way if they could cause the man was a nightmare. And he’d held the cake while he and his mum sang happy birthday and then he’d tried so hard to be put out about the appearance of Dog but really he’d seemed just a bit excited too. _That_ was his dad.  
  
The car door slammed but he didn’t hear a word his dad was saying as Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale crowded around him and jostled him and punched him on the arm and said they were never, ever going to play that sort of game again.  
  
Adam agreed.


	35. Chapter 35

-2019-  
-Tadfield-

  
And just like that, it was over.  
  
Crowley and Aziraphale watched the small factions file out. The kids got a stern, if not flustered, talking to before being instructed to pile on their bikes and go back home. The young woman with the book that Aziraphale desperately wished Crowley hadn’t returned just yet and her boyfriend scuttled off. Aziraphale realized a little belatedly that Tracey and Shadwell weren’t going to get back to London without a miracle so he snapped them back to her apartment.  
  
And then it was just him and Crowley.  
  
He looked around at the scattered symbols of the Horsemen. “Hmm.” Another snap brought a box to his hands and he set about collecting the items.  
  
As he bent down to pick up the sword, his sword, Crowley was at his side, "I'll take the box, angel.”  
  
“Oh, yes. Sure. Of course.”  
  
They stood there.  
  
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who was looking down into the box. Eyes droopy and glassy. His nails were still long. So was his hair. Scales covered the backs of his hands and cheeks. He looked like he was likely to fall over any moment.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Hmm?” He looked up, although Aziraphale had his doubts that Crowley was looking _at_ him.  
  
“Quick miracle back?”  
  
“Can't, angel,” he whispered. “Cant. Can’t hold myself together long enough.”  
  
“Yes, of course. We can, we can...I’m sure there's some form of public transportation.”  
  
Crowley nodded weakly.  
  
“Come on, my dear.”  
  
He took Crowley's arm and they started walking.  
  
They walked through the airbase. Winding around the unconscious soldiers. They walked past the Bentley, a smoking shell. Azirpahale noticed Crowley didn't look but he heard the quiet sound that left him; it could only be described as a whimper.  
  
And they kept walking.  
  
Aziraphale couldn't quite get his thoughts to settle. Stopping the apocalypse and finding the antichrist and evading heaven and hell and keeping Crowley safe and fighting the urge he felt when the horns rang, when the quartermaster was screaming at him, even when Satan had made his appearance...it was all so much and now it was all suddenly...over.  
  
His thoughts were having a hard time catching up to the silence.  
  
He supposed he and Crowley had much to talk about. Crowley had seen his wings, for one. And there was what Adam had said... that he wasn't an angel anymore. More than that, that Crowley wasn't a demon. What did that _mean?_ And of course the bit of paper from the book, surely that—  
  
"Angel."  
  
Aziraphale looked up to realize it was dark out. The sun had set while they walked. He wasn't quite sure where they were going, he was following Crowley and only just realized that maybe Crowley was following him. Wouldn’t that be funny?  
  
“Yes, my dear?  
  
“What happened to your wings?”  
  
He was looking down at the box as he asked it.  
  
“Oh. Yes. Right, that.”  
  
“Yes. Right.” He repeated, the words clipped. “ _That._ ”  
  
“I uh. Well I suppose they...fell off?”  
  
Crowley stopped. Aziraphale had to steel himself before turning around to face him.  
  
“Fell. _Off?_ ”  
  
“Well... I think they might have burned actually. There was ash all around me when I came to and, well, a distinct lack of wings.” He moved to fidget with his pocket watch but found that to be difficult with a sword in one hand. He settled for picking at the pommel.  
  
“Burned? You...” He took in a breath. It sounded as shattered as he looked. “You’ve fall—y—“ He couldn’t get the words out and Aziraphale wasn’t about to make him.  
  
“No, my dear,” he said, putting a hand on his arm. “No. I haven't. I don't think so. My halo is still intact. I saw Michael and Uriel and they didn't seem to notice anything different. I felt the pull of the horns. I was able to speak with the metatron. I, well, I was _in_ heaven after I was discorporated, and, no one seemed to notice anything amiss. I don't think I'd have been able to go to heaven if...well.”  
  
“But. Why?” Crowley’s hands gripped the box tight, crushing the sides, his nails stabbing into the cardboard. “ _Why_ did it happen?”  
  
Aziraphale took a deep breath. This was it. The conversation he'd been trying to have for almost a decade. Longer if he counted when the first feather fell. A conversation he _needed_ to have. And a conversation he'd been so, so terrified of.  
  
“I think,” he started, “I…I think it happened because of, of my relationship with you. Over the years. How I feel about you.” Oh, his chest hurt. Why did his chest hurt? Why wouldn’t his heart calm down? He didn’t need it, didn’t need it to beat, didn’t need it flopping around inconsistently beneath his ribs and yet he couldn’t get it under control.  
  
“How you…feel? Wh...B-Because of me? This happened because of me? Because you know me, because you drink with me, because—“  
  
“Crowley, Crowley please.”  
  
He took a step back, “This is my fault…”  
  
“No! This is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you would do this…”  
  
“You’re telling me your fucking wings burned off because you…you chose to be my friend.”  
  
It was a little more than that, Aziraphale thought. But what he said was, “Yes. Because _I_ chose it.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“ _No._ ” Crowley flinched and Aziraphale softened his tone. “Give me some credit here, Crowley. I saw the signs. I knew something was coming and it wasn’t going to be good and I still…” He wet his lips, “I still made my choices. And I don’t regret them. Not for a moment.”  
  
“I…but…”  
  
“No ‘buts’, my dear. I have no regrets. Are you going to deny me that? My choice in this?”  
  
“No of course not, angel. I…you…”  
  
“I could’ve stopped,” Aziraphale said, putting a hand on Crowley’s arm once more. “I could have made other choices, gone different paths. I didn’t. And there were consequences and I accept that, I do.”  
  
He could see in Crowley’s eyes that he wanted to argue the point. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine why. Why he felt he had to take the blame for this. Why he couldn’t believe Aziraphale would give up his wings, and so much more, for him, for them. Then he thought just how many times he watched Crowley walk away from him and he had an idea why.  
  
He put his hand on Crowley’s cheek, “I’m okay, I promise. And…” he smiled, a little surprised by how genuine it felt, how light, “I wasn’t exactly using them if I’m quite honest.”  
  
Crowley let out a weak laugh at that.  
  
That’s better. “Do you know where we’re going?”  
  
“Bus stop,” Crowley said. “Just there.”  
  
He turned and sure enough there was a bench, a single lamp post. “That will take us to London?”  
  
“Will tonight.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”  
  
They settled in on the bench. Crowley still holding the box. The sword on Aziraphale’s lap. It was quiet. The air cool. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to keep talking. He wanted to make up for the last six years. For the last six thousand. He wanted to take his hand and play with his hair. And he supposed he was able to do that now, right? He was able to do it then, if he’d been less of a coward about it. But now, now for sure, they’d thwarted the apocalypse, told off their superiors, stood by as the horsemen were dismantled, if a solid smiting hadn’t happened yet he wasn’t sure it would. And certainly taking Crowley’s hand, _at this point_ , wouldn’t be the thing that tipped the scales, would it?  
  
After everything how could he still be this nervous?  
  
“How you feelin’, angel?”  
  
“Hmm? _Me?_ ”  
  
Crowley nodded slowly, gaze still on the ground.  
  
“My dear, you’re the one I’m worried about. If you could see your face—oh! Faces! I almost forgot!”  
  
“You almost forgot faces?” He looked down in the box, “What?”  
  
Aziraphale pulled out the scrap of paper from the book, “Here, look at this.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“It fell out of Agnes Nutter’s book. You know. When you flung it across the air base.”  
  
Crowley scowled down at the paper for longer than was necessary to read it. Finally he said, “…so this is the final one of Agnes Nutters’ prophecies?”  
  
“As far as I know.”  
  
“Unbelievable.”  
  
“Do you know what it means?”  
  
“I have an idea, yeah,” he held the paper back out to him.  
  
“Oh! Crowley you must tell—“  
  
A delivery truck pulled up in front of them and a human, who oddly smelled faintly of heaven, came up to them. “You got the, um…?”  
  
“Yes of course,” Aziraphale held the box out to him, followed by the sword. “Don’t want them falling into the wrong hands.”  
  
“Good thing you were here, really,” the driver said, shuffling his items around.  
  
“Oh how nice for someone to recognize our part—“  
  
“I need someone to sign for it.”  
  
Crowley barely swallowed a laugh, his shoulders shaking. Aziraphale signed for the items, secretly glad to see him smile finally.  
  
Once the delivery man was off and Aziraphale was seated once more, he drummed his fingers atop his legs. Just. Just reach over. Just take his stupid, bloody hand. They’d _kissed_ , finally, and oh, Aziraphale realized with a blush, in front of all those people.  
  
He swallowed.  
  
“I suppose, when the bus arrives, I should…get him to drop me off at the Bookshop.”  
  
Crowley turned to him, slowly. He blinked. “It, angel, it burned down. Remember?”  
  
“Oh…” His shoulders dropped, “Right.” It was all gone.  
  
“You can…come to my place if you like?”  
  
Aziraphale looked at him once more. He was being so gentle, always, always so gentle. Never pushing, never taking more than he was given which, if Aziraphale was honest with himself, wasn’t ever much, was it?  
  
“Not sure,” Aziraphale said, offering him one last out, one last opportunity to walk away. It’d been a lot, the past few years, the past few days, the past few hours. He’d understand, he would, if Crowley had finally had enough. He’d never get over the loss, but he’d understand. “Not sure either of our sides would like that.”  
  
He saw Crowley tense. And then he saw him let it go.  
  
“We don’t have sides anymore,” he said quietly. Then he stretched out his arm and reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand. “We’re on our own side now?”  
  
Oh. Oh his beautiful demon. Always so much braver than he will ever be. Aziraphale turned his hand around so could fully hold Crowley’s. The demon smiled. Slow and tired and small, but still so wonderful.  
  
Aziraphale gestured to his hair, which still cascaded down his back, “Is this how long it was? Back then?”  
  
“Nah. Went down to my ankles.”  
  
“Oh good lord.”  
  
He shrugged, that small, sly smile still on his face.  
  
“But in your true state?”  
  
“Closer to this, yeah. I like having it long. It feels good.”  
  
“I agree.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
He shifted, but didn’t let go of Crowley’s hand. “I rather like your longer hair. I…I like running my fingers through it.”  
  
Crowley sat forward a bit, “When have you ever…?  
  
“One afternoon. The ah, the water is wet tantrum.”  
  
“Ooooh.”  
  
“You fell asleep on the couch while I was making tea.”  
  
“While I was asleep, angel?”  
  
Aziraphale swatted him with his other hand, “Don’t even joke! I simply took out your pins. Which were no doubt half the cause of your migraine.”  
  
“Could’ve miracled them out.”  
  
“You could’ve miracled them _in_.”  
  
“Ehh, point taken.”  
  
He swallowed, keep talking, keep talking. “It was…the same day my wings were…”  
  
“What? Then? That day? Why didn’t you—“  
  
“Gabriel came.”  
  
“ _He_ took your wings?”  
  
Aziraphale felt a slight hum of electricity run through him, coming from Crowley. A charge of power not unlike when he unfurled his wings in that blanket fort, or when he created somewhere new, just for them and Adam. But there was anger in his voice.  
  
“No, no. Not quite.” The hum abated. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and at the reassuring squeeze back, he kept going. “He came to tell me you were assisting the antichrist. And that’s when he said how much he wanted to…to kill you. You were asleep in the back room the entire time he and Uriel were there and I-I couldn’t wake you. I _literally_ couldn’t, you probably could’ve slept through the apocalypse. And even if I managed to wake you, you’d be upset. And rightfully so, having just dealt with a toddler all week and into your weekend.” He took a breath, “When they left and I saw you lying there I just…I knew. I knew in that moment I would do anything to keep you safe. Even if it meant going against heaven. And, well, with that realization, they were taken from me.”  
  
“Ang—“ he stopped short. “Should—do you want me to stop…?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” he said, a bit more fierce than he’d intended. “Not at all. I love it.”  
  
“I’m sorry, angel. I meant what I said all those years ago, you’re the best of them. The best heaven has, ever will have, to offer.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. Heaven had, after all, produced Crowley.  
  
“You deserve better, to have been treated better by them.”  
  
“It’s alright. As I said I’d had warnings. They’d…been falling out since the ‘70s.”  
  
“The _seventies?_ ”  
  
“Yes and when we came up with the plan to thwart Armageddon it only got worse. I was sure you’d see one while we were in the museum, they were simply everywhere.”  
  
“Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ” It was more plea than anger.  
  
“As I said, because you would do exactly what you’re doing now. You’d blame yourself. You’d run off and hide and stay away from me in some attempt to keep me safe—“  
  
“And that’s different from insisting on disguises? In the _Bookshop_.”  
  
He said “the Bookshop” the way one might say “our home” and Aziraphale ached with it. He wanted it back. He wanted to be able to sit on Crowley’s couch and hold his hand just as he was now. He wanted to hear Crowley say he’d swing by the Bookshop later after tending to the plants and hear him say it like he was saying ‘home’. Maybe…maybe they could go somewhere new. Somewhere that wasn’t the Bookshop or Crowley’s flat. Something that was equal parts theirs.  
  
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not different. But in that moment, and all the moments to follow, I had a choice to make. Having you in my life or my wings. So I chose.”  
  
“We’re really terrible about talking to one another aren’t we?”  
  
Aziraphale laughed, “Just awful.”  
  
“Can we fix that?” Crowley said, leaning forward a bit to really look in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley’s were still full amber, the light of the streetlamp just barely catching them. Breathtaking. “Please?”  
  
“Yes. Of course, my dear. No more silly secrets and faffing about with ridiculously chilvarous attempts to save one another.”  
  
“Weeell, I won’t say no to some chilvary.”  
  
“I _am_ sorry, Crowley. I am. There’s-there’s so much I should’ve said or done before and then when Armageddon was facing us I couldn’t give up on Earth and I wanted to make sure you were safe, and yes, I’ll readily admit I went about _that_ all wrong—“  
  
“Shh, shh, shh.” Crowley said, squeezing his hand. “It’s done with, angel.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Shh.”  
  
“No you shush.”  
  
Crowley raised an eyebrow.  
  
“I…” He thought of Crowley saying he was going to leave. That he was going to go to Alpha Centauri. Of Crowley begging him to come with. Of when he left him in that crowded street in New York. In the 60’s when he gave him the Holy water. When he asked for the holy water. During the plague. Oysters. “I pushed you away. _Again._ ”  
  
The demon’s carefully poised look, arched brow, pursed lips, melted away to reveal shock, plain as anything. Did he think Aziraphale wasn’t aware? Did he think the angel was truly that ignorant? Aziraphale supposed he couldn’t fault him that, getting pushed away time after time. Only someone terribly ignorant or terribly cruel would continue to push away someone as caring and loving as Crowley.  
  
And then Crowley lifted their clasped hands and said, “Have you?” before pressing a kiss to the back of Aziraphale’s hand. His eyes locked on the angel’s. His lips lingered.  
  
Aziraphale reached out, running his finger tips lightly over the scales on Crowley’s cheek. “You must be so exhausted, my dear. You’re still slipping through.”  
  
“Yeah. Just need a little rest.”  
  
He settled back in his seat with a wiggle, “Why don’t you…” he patted his lap.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“If you like.”  
  
Crowley leaned forward, slow at first. Hesistant. Like he thought Aziraphale might run away at any moment. But Aziraphale had no intention of going anywhere. And soon Crowley’s head was in his lap, brilliant hair pooling beneath it. He still held his hand.  
  
“You can…” Crowley started. “You said you like…”  
  
“Running my fingers through? I do. Can I?”  
  
“If you like.”  
  
“I’d love to.”  
  
It wasn’t the couch in the bookshop. Or even a bench in St. James’ Park. There wasn’t a fireplace or wine or even a play to discuss. The sky was overcast, not a star in sight. No music, unless one counted the lone cricket doing its best. It was nothing like what Aziraphale had hoped for, had dreamt of, fantasized about, and somehow it was every bit of it. Crowley was with him, in his lap, in his arms. Comfortable, calm, and resting. Safe.  
  
He ran his fingers through his hair over and over, never tiring of the sensation, half expecting it all to melt away like a mirage. Crowley’s hair was still a little singed. A little coarse. He thought about settling the demon down in a bath. Lathering sweet scented soaps between his hands. Running his fingertips along his scalp. He could braid it, if Crowley kept it at this length. He’d like that. He’d never be able to style it in quite the sophisticated updos Crowley had always been able to do effortlessly but…he could learn. He _would_ learn. There was time for that now.  
  
“What if…” Crowley said. He sounded half asleep. “What if They were never testing the humans?”  
  
“How do you mean?”  
  
“What if the humans…were a test for _us?_ ”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“What if, I mean,” he shifted slightly, rolling onto his back so he could look up at Aziraphale. “History repeats itself over and over and humans never learn their bloody lessons because they don’t _live_ long enough to learn it. Histories are lost or twisted or intentionally erased. Only someone who was there…would know. What if…what if all these disasters and all these trials and the plauges and floods and…what if it’s not a lesson for them, but for _us?_ ”  
  
Aziraphale sat back, “Hmm. And falling, was that, failing?”  
  
“I don’t know. I fell, you didn’t. And we’re in the space place. Two very different paths—“  
  
“To wind up in the same place.”  
  
“And Adam said we aren’t…”  
  
“An angel or a demon anymore. So have we passed?”  
  
“Or failed rather spectacularly.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
The silence settled. The cricket chirped.  
  
“You know,” Aziraphale said, looking out at the quiet night around them.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I don’t think I care.”  
  
Crowley laughed.  
  
Aziraphale moved strands of hair from his forehead, “Although, I do think I’ll take you up on that offer.”  
  
“Which offer is that, angel? I made a lot of desperate pleas over the last twenty-four hours.” His voice still rang with laughter as he said it.  
  
“Quite right. The ah, offer to stay at yours.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I would love to see the plants again. It’s been a while.”  
  
Crowley looked up at him and Aziraphale didn’t think he would ever get tired of the sight. Of his eyes. Of the serenity settled over him. “Sure thing, whatever you like.”  
  
The bus pulled in before long and the two climbed in, hands never breaking apart. As they settled in their seats, Crowley immediately rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. There were still things he wanted to ask. About Before, how they wound up on opposite sides, had it always been like that? If they’d known one another, and weren’t enemies, why _did_ Crowley fall and not him? He wished he could brush it aside and focus on the future. It would be the smart thing to do, he knew. But the questions picked at him.  
  
They said no more secrets. Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, who had already nodded off. Whatever their past was, they’d figure it out. They’d do it, truly this time, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite how it reads, there IS one more chapter. Although this is Aziraphale's last POV chapter so it felt right to have feel a little like an ending too.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here it is…the final chapter.  
>   
> I just want to take a moment to say thank you to _everyone_ that’s been following along with this story, with my sporadic updates, my off the wall tags, my batshit life updates. Some of you have been here since the very beginning! That’s absolutely wild to me. Nine months and 90,000 words later, here we are. Whether you’ve been commenting from day one, or joined us just recently, or have been lurking, I’m so grateful for your constant support and encouragement (and the overwhelming support and encouragement and love from the Gomens Party House :screm:). This story is so incredibly important to me, there’s so much of me in it and, as _ridiculously_ corny as it sounds, writing this helped me fall in love with writing again.  
>   
> Many of you said you were sad to see it end and _believe me_ , I’m right there with you. (I expect every comment is gonna set me to crying all over again.) BUT, I do hope you’ll consider subscribing to me because not only do I have a few one-shot fics, of various ratings, both for gomens and Slow Show, but I have a new long-form fic I’ve already started working on. It’s a hades/perspehone inspired gomens AU and it is WAY less angsty lol. I’m really excited to share this new project with y’all, and I hope you’ll consider giving it a read.  
>   
> Again, thank y’all so, so, SO much for sticking with me. Your comments and support have got me through some really rough times. You’re just the bees knees <3.

  
  


-2019, Saturday-  
-London-

It kept happening.  
  
The journey there was different but the ending was the same.  
  
He would reach out and ask Aziraphale to run away with him to Alpha Centauri. One time, he said yes and they left and never looked back. One time he said he couldn't, that they weren't friends, he didn't even _like_ him, and that it was over. And Crowley had sneered and walked away. Yet another variant left them holding each other, so close and still unable to bridge the gap. Aziraphale promising to find him when it was all done.  
  
And many, many other versions.  
  
It was the ending that didn't change. They would be sitting on the couch in the back, sharing a bottle of wine. Sometimes it was tea. Once, in a very weird sort of alternate universe, it was pop. And they would be laughing. And Aziraphale would be laughing. He would get up to get a book or change the record or just to stand and give Crowley the full force of his tutting. And then he'd stop and he'd look sort of, sort of sick. The angel had never burped a day in his immortal life but if Crowley had to guess what sort of face he would make beforehand, that was it. Uncomfortable. Confused. And then, quite suddenly, afraid. He would look at Crowley and Crowley would look back at him, calling his name, asking what was wrong, what could he do. The ground beneath the angel would turn molten. Cracked and split. Flecks of ash would float up into the air. The smell of brimstone and sulfur flooding the Bookshop. Aziraphale would drop his glass, reaching for him, saying that it hurt, that it burned, that he was scared. Crowley would reach back but somehow was never close enough, he was too far, always too far even though he was right there, _right there._ He could see him. But he couldn't touch him.  
  
And slowly, agonizingly slow, the flames would lick up the angel's legs. The floor would shatter in an explosion of ash and soot.  
  
And he'd fall.  
  
Then, while Crowley is on the floor, digging with clawed nails, sobbing, Aziraphale would walk in again. All smiles. The circumstances that led up to that moment changing in an instant, coloring how he greeted the demon, what sort of jokes they told about the End-Times-That-Weren't-Really-Nigh-After-All. Crowley would bounce up from the floor and sit back on the couch.  
  
And they would drink.  
  
And they would laugh.  
  
And Aziraphale would laugh.

And it. Kept. Happening.

  
  


Crowley dug into the floor, screaming Aziraphale's name. He would get to him, he had to, he had to save him, he had to make it right. The wood splintered and jabbed into his hands. He could hear Aziraphale calling out to him. It was so faint but it was there, he was there, he could still get to him. His arm hurt, like something was squeezing it but he ignored it and kept digging. Aziraphale’s voice started to sound clearer, a little louder. The pain in his arm spiked. He jerked his arm, shaking off the phantom attacker and kept digging. He was right there.  
"...owley!"  
  
"I'm trying, angel, I'm trying," he choked out.  
  
"...Crowley! Crowley please!"  
  
"I'm so sorry..."  
  
"CROWLEY!"  
  
With a gasp he was ripped to the side, he felt like his body was hurtling through space, like when he snapped himself from one place to another but worse, far worse. He looked around wildly, hair everywhere, one arm up to shield himself, the other raised to strike out with his claws.  
  
"It's me, Crowley, it's me!"  
  
He blinked. Once, twice, he couldn't seem to stop. He shut his eyes hard and gave his head a shake. When he opened them again he was able to fully take in his surroundings. Aziraphale sat beside him, face twisted in concern, hands raised and half reaching for him. They were on a bus. A bus from... _going_...to London. They were going to London from Tadfield. Because they'd done it, they'd stopped the apocalypse.  
  
"Crowley?"  
  
"I..." He shifted in his seat, sitting a bit more upright. The bus driver was looking at him through the mirror, brows raised.  
  
"Are you alright, my dear?"  
  
"I think I...I think was dreaming. I think I, no I _know,_ it was a nightmare."  
  
"But...we don't...dream. Angels don't and, I-I thought demons didn't either."  
  
"Angels and demons _don’t_ dream." He met Aziraphale's gaze and he knew they were both thinking of Adam's words.  
  
"Right," Aziraphale said after a moment. "Uh. That's." He cleared his throat, "Well, that's a terrifying thought for another day. We're here, why don't we get going and let this poor driver head home?"  
  
Crowley looked down at his hands. He could feel that the scales on his face had gone. He was beginning to wonder if his hands would ever be able to pass as human again though. He needed to rest. He just needed to climb into his bed, miracle three dozen pillows and comforters, and _sleep._  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, let's go."  
  
As they clambered out of the bus he heard Aziraphale whisper a quiet miracle to the driver. Something about sleep and pleasant dreams.  
  
The walk to his flat was slow and quiet. Not unlike the walk in Tadfield. At least now his vision was clear and his head wasn’t swimming. The nap on the bus hadn’t quite been restful but his body was going to take what it could get it seemed.  
  
Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his hand. He’d taken it the moment Crowley stepped off the bus and continued holding it as they walked. Crowley wanted to tell him he didn’t have to. Not that the demon didn’t appreciate the displays of affection, not that he wasn’t soaking each and every term of endearment up, committing it to memory, storing it in a special part of his mind that til then had been reserved for wishful thinking. But his hand seemed large in Aziraphale’s. The claws sharp. He wanted to tell the angel he didn’t have to force himself to touch him when he was like that. He’d understand if he wanted to wait until his corporation was more…acceptable.  
  
But he didn’t seem able to form the words. Even if his brain wouldn’t allow him a reprieve from his hateful thoughts, his body was ready to do the work and keep his mouth shut. He allowed himself to have it, to have the moment. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know what the rest of the evening would bring. But he could have this.  
  
"Crowley?"  
  
"Hmm? Yeah?"  
  
"I was wondering..." he looked down at their hands.  
  
"Yeah, I don't, I don’t know why they won’t go back. I think I'm still just too exhausted. You don't have to...I'd understand if..."  
  
Aziraphale looked back up at him as though he'd started rambling in another language. Which, given the current scramble of his mind, would not have surprised him one bit. "I was going to ask, my dear, where that place was that you took us? To speak with Adam?"  
  
"Oh. Don't know. Didn't exist before."  
  
"You...you _created_ it?"  
  
It was Crowley turn to look down at his hands, "Yeah. Didn't know I could still do that. Create things."  
  
Aziraphale squeezed his hand.

  
  


When they reached his building the doorman gave Crowley a nod. He liked Greg. Greg and his partner had just had a kid. Crowley'd been putting off getting them a gift because, well, end of the world and all that. When he woke up in the morning he'd miracle them something nice.  
  
The elevator was like the rest of the building, sleek and smooth and chrome. Shiny walls Crowley could see his reflection in and he wished he'd been spared that just a little longer. He was a mess. No wonder Aziraphale's brows knitted up in concern every time he looked at him, his lips parted like he was ready to ask, again, if Crowley was alright. He looked ready to collapse. He felt like it too. Soon though. Soon they would be inside and he could rest.  
  
"Crowley?"  
  
"I'm fine," he answered automatically.  
  
"Dear?"  
  
Crowley looked up from the floor to see Aziraphale standing by the elevator door, one hand out to keep it from re-closing. How long had he been standing there?  
  
"Oh," Crowley said.  
  
"That's alright. We're almost ho--ahem, almost there."  
  
Was he about to say 'home'? Maybe not. Why would Aziraphale ever consider his flat a home? Austere and sharp as it was? Crowley barely considered it a home. He was mostly there for the plant room and the bed. Although the kitchen had seen more use in the past ten years than ever before. But that wasn't anything special to _this_ flat in _this_ building. Any flat or house would have a kitchen. And a bedroom. Another bedroom could be turned into a plant room easily enough. Some of those fancier places had rooftop gardens now. Eh, he wouldn't want to share his space though. A house would have space for a garden. And with the Bookshop gone... It was the closest either of them had ever gotten to a home and even then it was still a shop. But it wasn't _that_ shop in _that_ location. It was the books, and Aziraphale's clutter, and a comfortable couch and a throw. They could have that anywhere.  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat gently.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You've been staring at--nevermind, my dear. Do you...have your key?"  
  
Crowley blinked. Fuck's sake, how long had they been standing in front of his door? "Uh," he patted down his pockets. He wasn't sure when he started carrying his key around but he liked it. He liked the routine of putting it in the door, hearing the little beep, and going in. Life wasn't any fun after a while when things just miracled themselves into place. It was in the last few years. That much he knew. It gave him something to focus on after a long week at the Dowling's. A routine to look forward to. Open the door, go in, pour some wine, take out the curls. He was going to miss that bit.  
  
He finally found it and let them in. "S'abit of a mess, angel. Sorry."  
  
"That's alright."  
  
"Could make you some tea. Cocoa. Can't really, can't miracle it up for you, sorry, but I've got the fixings. Might even have some of the colorful marshmallows from the last time Warlock was over."  
  
“Warlock’s been here?”  
  
“Yeah, few times,” he said, shutting the front door behind them. “Dowlings wanted a weekend to themselves, but didn’t want to leave the estate so they called up ol' Nanny Ashtoreth. There was a Christmas or two. Spent most of, what, last summer here? I remember there was a big to-do because he was here for his birthday and he was going into double digits. Very important, that.”  
  
“Oh, I see.”  
  
There was no mistaking the disappointment in Aziraphale’s voice. It sent a pang of guilt through him but really, what would they have done? Aziraphale insisting on disguises yet willing to come to his flat, where every demon in hell knew he lived, and was influencing the antichrist, dressed as who? Brother Francis? Nanny’s mystery friend? Warlock had asked after “Zira” a couple of times, he should tell him that, would make him smile.  
  
Crowley wanted to see him smile.  
  
Aziraphale had poked his head into the kitchen, “Oh dear, you weren’t kidding about the mess.”  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said, leaning on the wall in the hall, “Hastur and Lig—“ He stopped. The holy water. The door at the other end of the hall was still only slightly ajar. His note still in place. How could he have forgotten about it? Was it…was the bucket still there? Was there going to be a grotesque mess of a being on his study floor?  
  
He took a deep breath. And another. Oh, oh no not here not now not in front of him.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
He stared down the hall, his breath coming in shallow, quick bursts. He felt scales bloom across his cheeks once more.  
  
Aziraphale was in front of him in a blink, hands on his face, “Crowley, what’s happening, what’s wrong?” Before the demon could answer, Aziraphale followed his gaze to the door at the end of the hall and he stiffened.  
  
In one movement he shifted Crowley to stand behind him, one hand on Crowley’s arm, the other out and ready to summon his sword. Crowley could sense it, the crackle of energy, the familiar buzz of a holy relic teetering between planes. And Aziraphale, he was practically glowing. A soft, warm light that instantly set Crowley at ease, let his muscles relax, his shoulders drop, he had the almost uncontrollable urge to tilt his head back, close his eyes, and bask. He didn’t though, so when Aziraphale turned his head toward him slightly, still keeping an eye on the door at the end of the hall, Crowley was able to see the whisper of a mane about him as he moved. It shimmered into existence and out just as quickly when he turned his head.  
  
“Is someone here?”  
  
“No,” he said and hoped, for everyone’s sake, that was true. He’d never seen Aziraphale like this before. So ready to fight, for him, to keep him safe. Not since…he swallowed, blinked back tears, not since. “T-There’s no one. I don’t think. I…it’s the holy water. When Hastur and Ligur came for me I set a trap, on the door. I don’t know if its still there, if they tripped it and-and if one of them, if it’s—“  
  
Aziraphale shook his outstretched hand, like he was shaking water off of it, and flexed his fingers; the hum of power receded. He turned to Crowley, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I can go check. You just wait here, my dear, okay?”  
  
When he walked away, Crowley saw a dusting of soil follow behind him.  
  
He watched as the angel stopped in front of the door, reading the sign. He then poked his head in, looking at the ground and then twisting around to look up. He snapped, took one final look around, and then pushed the door open, “All gone.”  
  
Crowley took a hesitant step forward, “It was…still there?”  
  
“It was,” Aziraphale said, coming back down the hall to meet him halfway. “But it’s gone now.”  
  
“They didn’t spring it…”  
  
“You did leave a very clear note.”  
  
“Hn, yeah but,” he walked with Aziraphale back to the study. Flinching minutely when they got to the door frame.  
  
Aziraphale took his hand and led him in. “But what?” he encouraged.  
  
“Just. Doesn’t mean they’d listen.” He looked around the room. Not a scratch. Nothing out of place. The plants were fine. He wanted to go to them but Aziraphale was leading him towards his chair. His ridiculous little throne he’d gotten as a lark. He never used the damn thing. If he was going to rest that’s what his bed was for. If he wanted to relax…that’s what the Bookshop had been for.  
  
“Well you are quite the tempter.”  
  
He chuckled. He hoped it counted for something. He hoped the warning counted for something. He hoped saving their lives would. He hoped it would award him and Aziraphale _something_ when hell, when Beelz, finished licking their wounds and came for him.  
  
He sank into his chair.  
  
“There you are, dear. Why don’t you rest a bit?”  
  
He pulled his legs up, turning onto his side. The chair was definitely bigger than normal. Softer too. He wasn’t going to complain. “Just…just a moment. I just need a moment and then we can figure out what we’re going to do.” His eyes had already fluttered shut and even he could hear how sleep-heavy his words were as he mumbled, “Just a couple minutes.”  
  
“Of course.” Aziraphale said. Crowley wasn’t sure what he was doing but he didn’t hear footsteps. He half wondered if the angel was just going to stand there while he rested. That would be silly of him. But it was a nice image. A nice thought. He’d said he’d find him, and he had. He’d said, so long ago, that he wouldn’t let anyone harm him, and he seemed determined to keep to that.  
  
He found himself wondering again about where home would be, without the Bookshop. He supposed they could just…miracle a new one. Or the same one somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Away from…everyone. Damn it all, he wanted a garden. He let out a quiet, barely there laugh. A new garden. This had all started in one, it’d be nice if it got to end in one too.  
  
Was he still standing there?  
  
“Angel?”  
  
“Yes, dear? How do you feel?”  
  
He shifted in his seat, “Can’t rest like this.”  
  
“I suppose an hour is about as much as anyone can expect in that chair.”  
  
“An hour? Really?” He rolled his shoulders. Didn’t feel like it all.  
  
“Do you want to go to bed?”  
  
He stopped in the middle of rolling his neck, head cocked to the side, “What?”  
  
Aziraphale blinked. “Oh! I-ah-I meant, you usually, if you wanted to _sleep_ for, ah, a bit longer? Rest some more?” He fiddled with his waistcoat. Crowley realized he’d taken off his jacket and laid it on the table.  
  
“Uh, no, no we should figure out what we’re going to do next.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“I just…need a moment. Get. Thoughts. Together.”  
  
“Of course. I’ll ah, I’ll check in on the plants then. Take your time.”  
  
He listened to Aziraphale leave. He stretched his legs out in front of him. The scales on the backs of his hands had mostly gone. Although his fingers were still more claw than anything else. He brushed the back of his hand against his cheek. Smooth, no scales. That was progress.  
  
“Hello, Daisy! Oh I do so like this new look, it suits you well.”  
  
He leaned on the arm of the chair, watching Aziraphale gently brush his fingers along leaves and branches.  
  
“Yes, I’m on my way over there Alanna, I see you preening.” He leaned in, “And how are _you,_ Reginald II?”  
  
Crowley couldn’t stop the grin that broke out if he wanted to, “It’s Reginald _Two.”_  
  
Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh in response, sparing only a fleeting glance in his direction. “Dear…that’s not how you name—“  
  
“It is is. Because it’s how I have.”  
  
“It doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“It makes plenty of sense, angel.” He sat back in his seat. It was nice. It felt good to have a familiar, stupid argument. A small tit for tat that meant nothing, where there were no stakes, where no one would be left in tears or their heart splayed. Just gentle barbs and not the sledgehammer they’d been swinging at each other the last six years. “He would only be ‘the second’,” Crowley continued, “if he was taking on the title of Reginald or if he was a direct descendant of Reginald. He is neither. He is a clipping from Reginald and therefore still Reginald. So he is Reginald…two.”  
  
“He’s not a-a clone!”  
  
“No. He’s Reginald. Just in two different places.”  
  
“I…” He heard Aziraphale take a deep breath and let it out slow. He came back into the office, the same ridiculous grin on Crowley’s face threatening to spill out, “I’m not going to have this argument with you, dear.”  
  
He took in the angel’s smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He had never been so free with the endearments before, so giving. Was it to prove something? That he didn’t want to push him away? Or did he just feel that he was allowed to now? Whatever the reason, Crowley wasn’t going to tire of it any time soon.  
  
“Right,” Aziraphale said, perching on the edge of his desk. “You said we have to figure things out? I take it you have an idea?”  
  
“Yeah but…it’s risky. It’s _really_ risky.”  
  
“Oh? Riskier than trying to thwart the apocalypse?”  
  
He scoffed, “Way more. The prophecy from Nutter’s book? It made me think of something I’d read in the archives ages ago. Didn’t make sense then but…well of course it does now.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Crowley was infinitely grateful the word “ineffable” didn’t leave Aziraphale’s mouth. “It’s going to sound crazy. But I think it’ll work. You’ll…just have to trust me.”  
  
“I trust you with my life, Crowley.”  
  
And he did, didn’t he? Trusted him to come up with something in those final moments. Trusted him to meet him at the airbase. To thwart the apocalypse. All throughout the arrangement, every time Crowley went off to do a blessing in his stead, he trusted it would actually get done, that he wouldn’t have to go into heaven and report on why his work was missing. All the way back to the wall. He’d sheltered him. Crowley had been too caught up in hoping the angel would remember, in hoping they could be what they were, it hadn’t quite sunk in that, from Aziraphale’s perspective, here was a demon he’d never laid eyes on before, had no reason to expect anything but the absolute worst…and he’d brought him in close under his wing.  
  
Crowley swallowed, could feel the tears coming. He really hoped his body wasn’t going to let that become a _habit._ “Good,” he managed to say, as he pushed himself out of the chair, unable to sit in that moment. He grabbed the spray bottle absently, looking for anything to do. “Cause we might die. Not just a little discorporation.” He pressed a finger against Gustav’s soil. “Completely and utterly _poof_ if this—“  
  
“What is that new necklace of yours?”  
  
“What?” He spritzed a few leaves. “The chain? Warlock—“  
  
“No, no that. That golden thing on your throat.”  
  
Everything in Crowley seemed to turn to ice. Slowly, he went to the doorway, peering into the office. “What did you say?”  
  
Aziraphale still sat on the edge of the table. “Oh,” he pushed himself off and came over, “I could have swore I saw…” He reached up, his fingertips moving to the base of Crowley’s throat.  
  
He grabbed the angel’s hand as gently as he could, cautious of his claws. Aziraphale hardly seemed to notice as his hand kept moving forward. Crowley didn’t pull away. Carefully, still cradled in Crowley’s hand, Aziraphale’s fingertips brushed the hollow of his throat.  
  
“Why is it cold here…?”  
  
“Angel…”  
  
Aziraphale looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d moved from the table. “Hmm? Oh…Oh! Crowley I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”  
  
“It’s fine,” he said, slowly lowering Aziraphale’s hand. “It’s been…a long time.”  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
“Not often.”  
  
He frowned at that, eyes falling back down to Crowley’s throat.  
  
Crowley released his hand and carefully smoothed the crease in Aziraphale’s brow. He then tapped under his chin, “Stop pouting, angel.”  
  
“We need to talk.”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said, already trying to move away, to get some distance between them. Everything felt too real and too new and too fragile. “About how we’re gong to do this face choosing—“  
  
“No. Well, yes. But first. I need to know. Crowley, what _exactly_ have I forgotten?”  
  
“Angel.”  
  
“Tell me. I know you don’t remember your name from before the Fall—“  
  
“And I don’t want to.”  
  
“But that’s _all_ you’ve forgotten. I don’t remember so much more. The war, before the war, or-or anything before my days on that wall. Did,” his fingers were going to burn a whole through the hem of his waistcoat, the way he fiddled with it. “Did we know each other before?”  
  
“What does it matter? It was _six thousand_ years ago, it’s—“  
  
“Crowley, _please._ I can’t keep wondering. I get, I get hints or pieces that come to me and I don’t know what it is or what it means. And with everything Gabriel said, everything Beelzebub said please, just tell me what you know.” When Crowley didn’t answer right away Aziraphale stepped forward, miracled the spray bottle out of his hand with a wave, and took Crowley’s hands in his. “Please. I want us to be equal in this.”  
  
No more secrets. No more half-truths. They were going to talk to each other. That was the deal, the new arrangement.  
  
“Did we know each other before?”  
  
“Yes,” he said.  
  
Aziraphale nodded slowly, squeezing Crowley’s hands, “Okay. Alright. I. Who was I? To…to you? How did we meet? It wasn’t always the wall and the garden there was before that, before Earth? Before the humans? Why…why did we wind up on opposite sides?”  
  
Crowley tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling, and took a deep, deep breath. “We met…because you were a curious thing that couldn’t bring himself to disrupt anyone. You’d linger, and watch us starmakers. You were fascinated because…” He looked back down at Aziraphale, “you were so, so tragically _bad_ at it, angel.”  
  
That got him a laugh.  
  
“I invited you over, that’s how we met.”  
  
“And…everything else?”  
  
It all played back in Crowley’s mind. The laughter, the joking, his smile. The way he would sneak off from training to sit with him while Crowley recounted what he’d learned in the Archives or some prank Beelz had played on Uriel. He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, so wide and bright and hopeful, ready to hear any and everything Crowley had to say and it was so like before he  
  
“I don’t, I can’t,” he tried to twist his hands out of Aziraphale’s but the angel held fast.  
  
“Were we enemies?”  
  
“No, angel. Never. We just made different choices. And we’ll never know which ones were the ones that sealed our fate in Her eyes.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”  
  
“Would you have believed me? Aziraphale, if I had slithered up that wall and said, ‘Hello dear, you don’t remember me but ours was the greatest fucking love, the _first_ love this Earth ever saw and together we made galaxies and breathed life into them and that your smile outshines the splendor of heaven itself and-and…” He shook himself, shook his hands free of Aziraphale’s, moved away. He laughed because if he didn’t he’d cry. “You would’ve taken one look at me, with these,” he held up his hands, “and these,” he gestured to his eyes, “and my wings and laughed me right off that wall. Or worse.”  
  
“I…”  
  
But he didn’t finish the sentence because he couldn't. He couldn’t know the truth of it, of how he may have reacted, and they both know it. Not six thousand years ago. Not when faced with that.  
  
“All this time,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “you’ve been waiting for me to remember? To…catch up to you?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, shifted his weight from foot to foot, “I mean…at first. Yeah? I hoped you’d remember. It was hard, letting go of the angel I knew, the one I…but I did. And I-I didn’t hold you to anything. I tried really, really hard not to Aziraphale, you have to believe me. I didn’t expect anything or-or, I just, after a while I figured we’d be friends. My best friend. You always were. And it’s never been one or the other for me. It’s not a loss if…you didn’t…if we never…” He swallowed down the rest of the words.  
  
“You waited,” Aziraphale said, gaze hard on the floor. “You waited for _six thousand years._ You waited and you hoped and—“  
  
“It’s, y’know, it’s fine. We’ve done alright for ourselves.”  
  
Aziraphale was frowning, truly frowning for once. He looked from the floor, to the plants, as if seeing them for the first time, and then back at Crowley. “Excuse me,” he said. “I think I need some air.”  
  
“Wha—angel…”  
  
“Excuse me,” he repeated, tone firm. “Please.”  
  
And he left.  
  
Crowely listened to the front door close gently, a little numb. More than a little numb. What had he done wrong this time? He’d told the truth, he answered his questions, he…and the angel still left. He looked around. Aziraphale had left his coat. He’d be back for that, at least.  
  
He waited.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there but after a while he went to his chair. It was still bigger and softer and he curled up into it again. His mind blank. He didn’t even know what to hope for anymore. So he closed his eyes and listened to his breath.  
  
He must have fallen asleep, because the sound of the front door closing jarred him. Crowley wasn’t sure how long he’d been sleeping but he did feel a little rested, even as he unfolded himself from the chair to listen to Aziraphale’s footsteps.  
  
Aziraphale came in and stood in front of him. He folded his hands. Sat back a bit on the edge of the table. Crowley tried not to drum his fingers, they were fingers again, he must have slept, on the arm of the chair.  
  
“So,” Aziraphale started, “I had a lovely walk.”  
  
“S’good.”  
  
“And…I did some thinking.”  
  
“Alright then,” he was fairly writhing in his seat. “Let’s have it.”  
  
“Crowley, I’m so sorry but I don’t think I will ever remember our past. The time before the war. I get…pieces here and there. More the...scent of a thing than the actual meat of it. And no matter how I look at it, I think that may be for the best.”  
  
“I…’kay.” That was fine. He’d prepared for that. He’d been preparing for that since….well for a long time. They had to survive what came next and then, what? Would he still want to be his friend at all? Without the Bookshop maybe Aziraphale would just leave altogether. He’d want to travel, most like. Try food all over. Maybe he would write to him, there was no way the angel would get a phone, but that would be alright letters would come with his scent, with—  
  
“Oh, no. No no no, Crowley.” Aziraphale dropped to his knees in front of the chair, reaching up to cup Crowley’s cheek. “You misunderstand. I can see it, I can see you trying to figure out what’s next, what you have to do, trying to come up with another brilliant plan. Listen to me, my dear. I don’t remember us, what we were, what we had. I don’t remember our days together and you never tried to force me to. You never tried to push me towards it. You let me become…who I am now. And the person I am now still fell in love with you.”  
  
“I…y—wha—you what?”  
  
And then he smiled. “Oh, I love you, Crowley. I’ve been falling in love with you all this time, even when I didn’t know it. And then when I did, I-I thought because you’re a demon you would never want to be with me and then we would have so many wonderful, perfect moments like—“  
  
“New Year’s ’99,” he breathed.  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his thumb stroking Crowley’s cheek. “I’ve known it, unequivocally since the church in the ‘40s. That’s why I gave you the holy water. Because with my love comes my trust.”  
  
“You said…I move too fast.”  
  
“Oh God, in six thousand years that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever said.”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“Oh hush,” he said, slipping his fingers from Crowley’s cheek to his hair. “How could I have said that to you? After you waited so long? I’m so sorry. I was just...scared and stupid, if I’m being honest. But make no mistake Anthony J. Crowley, I love you.”  
  
At that Crowley leaned in to kiss him but stopped short, unsure. Still, somehow, unsure.  
  
Aziraphale smiled that smile again, the one that was just for him, the one that made his heart clench in the most beautiful way, the one that made what they were, where they were, and any thing besides that smile seem insignificant.  
  
“Oh you ridiculous man,” Aziraphale said. “Come here.”  
  
And he pulled him forward into a kiss.  
  
Much like at the airbase, it started as a simple press of their lips. When they parted, it wasn't far, and Crowley leaned into him again. Daring to part his lips just a bit, tilt his head, and Aziraphale sighed into the movement, matching him.  
  
Crowley smiled and it steadily grew into a grin. He couldn't help it. They shared a smiling, awkward kiss before Crowley lowered his head. He reached out with shaking hands to hold Aziraphale, to wrap his arms around him. It was real. It was happening and it was real. Aziraphale was here. He was in his arms. He was...he was in love with him. He was here, they were together and he loved him and it was _real_. It wasn't some memory of a time long ago that haunted him as much as it fueled him. It wasn't a fantasy he thought up for himself when he lay staring at the ceiling, one he spun to Daisy back in those early days when it was just the two of them. It was real and he was holding him and someone help him he didn't think he would ever, ever let go.  
  
The sob caught them both off guard. Crowley nearly choking on it in an attempt to keep it in but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Six thousand years of hoping and wishing and honestly of losing hope and learning how to find it again, to reshape it, to live in a way that allowed the hope to breathe without consuming him. It was all so much and it just spilled out of him in heaving sobs.  
  
Aziraphale pushed to his feet, letting Crowley bury his face in his stomach as the demon wrapped his arms around him tighter and tighter. One hand carded through Crowley’s hair while the other rubbed gently down his back. Up and down.  
  
“It’s okay, my dear. I’m here. I’m here.”  
  
They stayed like that for some time. Through Crowley’s sobs, through his sniffles, and well into him becoming settled and content listening to Aziraphale’s breath, feeling the slight rise and fall of his stomach.  
  
“Crowley? Can I…share something with you?”  
  
He looked up at Aziraphale, hesitant to remove even that point of contact. “Course, angel.”  
  
With the utmost care, Aziraphale gently unwrapped Crowley’s arms from around his waist and went to his knees. He settled in on the floor, kneeling in front of Crowley and the demon wanted to yank him back to his feet.  
  
“Aziraphale, y-you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t kneel. Not in front of me. W-wait, don’t—“  
  
“Shh,” he said as he took Crowley’s hands in his. He kissed the center of his knuckles on one hand, and then the other. “I like your hands.”  
  
The sound that left Crowley was a strangled whimper. “You…what?” He couldn’t understand how it was human bodies never seemed to run out of tears.  
  
“You said you didn’t know you could still create things but you do Crowley, all the time. You made that place, yes. But you also helped these plants to grow. You helped create so, so many beautiful memories for Warlock. Building that fort with your own hands, _insisting_ you used your hands. These wonderful hands. I’d…I’d like it if you…” He dropped Crowley’s hands and went to his bow tie, undoing it.  
  
“Angel?”  
  
“Technically not, it would seem.”  
  
“Aziraphale.”  
  
“It’s just…I haven’t looked. Not really, since I lost my wings.” He set the bow tie on his leg and went about undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. “Peeks here and there,” he continued. “Caught a glimpse when I was discorporated but, I haven’t _looked._ I’d like it if you would…with me?”  
  
“Of…of course. Yes.”  
  
Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slow and as he did, the smallest pair of wings just past the base of his neck unfurled, the blue of his halo appearing shortly after. Instead of feathers, his wings are made of this, membranous substance, thin and moving ever so slightly with his breath. Crowley had seen it when they spoke with Adam but now that he was closer, he could see a sort of pattern woven throughout. Like Aziraphale’s many eyes, it shifted, moved, flowed.  
  
He raised his hand. Paused. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale took his other hand, holding it tight, “please.”  
  
There are many ways to know someone. To know their fears and desires, their hopes and dreams, to know their personalities, what makes them tick, what makes them laugh that deep, unfiltered laugh. There are many ways to Know an angel. To bear witness to their aspects, to fall deep into their unbound form, to shift and flow and gaze and writhe, to be as one for forever or just a moment.  
  
Crowley’s touch was whisper soft as he cradled Aziraphale’s halo, the blue of it coating his fingertips, spreading down and across his hand. He rotated his hand, ever so slightly, flexed his fingertips just so, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply and let it out in sigh. He pressed his forehead to Crowley’s and they breathed together. He could feel his light, warm and welcoming, pool in his hand and run down his arm. He hadn’t even brushed the core of Aziraphale, he knew it, but the gentle touches just on the outskirts, the cafeful explorations, were more than enough. He was always so beautiful and that hadn’t changed. Different now, but no less beautiful.  
  
Aziraphale lowered his head to the crook of Crowley’s neck. He breathed in deep. Pressed a kiss to that was half on skin, half on his collar and it still sent a shiver down the demon’s spine. His one hand squeezed Crowley’s and his other, his other reached up and rested gently on Crowley’s collarbone, a fingertip resting on the hollow of his throat.  
  
Crowley took in a steadying breath. His halo was gone but it didn’t make the place where it once rested any less of a window into the deepest parts of him. It took far more intention than Crowley had to use on Aziraphale but that didn’t stop the angel. He pressed down and Crowley curled in on himself with a whimper. He had to keep from tightening his hold on Aziraphale's halo; he didn’t want to hurt him.  
  
Another kiss was planted right below his jaw.  
  
“Look at you,” Aziraphale whispered as another finger joined his first, pressing, exploring.  
  
Crowley could barely think with the sensation of it. He knew Aziraphale could see parts of him that hadn’t yet made an appearance on Earth, parts of him that simply _couldn’t,_ not without destroying things, tearing holes in the weave of stars that surrounded them, parts he hadn’t allowed himself to even think of, let alone look at. And all the while the angel sighed in his neck and murmured how beautiful he was. Crowley wanted to wrap an arm around him and pull him close but couldn’t bring himself to let go of Aziraphale’s hand long enough to do it. Instead he tightened his grip, just a bit, on Aziraphale’s halo. He was so bright, so warm. There were still parts though that the angel seemed to be keeping hidden away from Crowley, from himself even. But it was right there, right at the edge, if he could just…  
  
“Crowley…”  
  
“You said you wanted to see, angel,” he said, his voice low. He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, “Relax. Let me help you.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded. Crowley kept a steady pace, caressing, exploring, coaxing the truth of the angel closer and closer to the surface. The hand that had been on Crowley’s throat slid around to grab at the back of his shirt. The blue of Aziraphale’s halo had only gotten brighter, warmer, it spilled out, seeped in. Crowley had thought, when he allowed himself to think of this, that it would hurt him. That they would never be able to know each other as they had before because he was a demon. But it didn’t. The light that spilled over him made him feel safe and protected and content.  
  
He dug a little deeper.  
  
“Crowley, I—“  
  
A blinding yellow light filled the room as Aziraphale’s wings, all of them, unfurled.  
  
“Angel…”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head, burying his face deeper in to the crook of Crowley’s neck.  
  
“Angel, _look._ ”  
  
It took him another moment but he slowly pulled away and sat back on his heels, stealing a nervous glance sideways. Then Aziraphale seemed to fully process what he was seeing and he bolted to his feet, stepping back until he hit the desk.  
His wings were the warmest golden yellow, warmth radiating off of them. They seemed to sparkle a bit, just a hint of a gleam, the way sunlight hits the sea. While Aziraphale looked, from one wing to the other, Crowley let his eyes drift shut. He tilted his head back with a sigh and allowed himself to bask in the warmth, in the safety, to let his mind go blank.  
  
It wasn’t long before the light faded and Crowley slowly opened his eyes to see Aziraphale’s wings had gone back to being the unassuming curtain they were earlier.  
  
Aziraphale fiddled with his vest, his brows furrowed. “Well…that wasn’t what I…they’ve never done that before.”  
  
Crowley laughed, he couldn’t help it, “Bet you say that to all the boys.”  
  
He pursed his lips, “I’m serious! And this,” he smacked soil from his shoulders and chest, “I don’t understand the _dirt._ I don’t understand any of it!”  
  
He… “You really don’t see it?”  
  
“See what?”  
  
“Oh angel,” Crowley stood. “Your wings are sunlight.”  
  
“What? I mean, certainly they’re bri—“  
  
“No. Aziraphale. Your wings are _made_ of sunlight. I can feel it in my bones, in my scales. I’m sure if went into the plant room with those beauties each and every one of them would lose their little plant minds.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“Sunlight, that helps the things on Earth grow. And this,” he picked a bit of soil from Aziraphale’s collar. It was soft and rich and smelled green and alive. “This isn’t just _dirt._ It’s _soil,_ Aziraphale. It’s Earth. _And,_ ” he pressed when it looked like Aziraphale might argue, “the mane? I saw a hint of it earlier.”  
  
“Yes, do explain that then.”  
  
“What was the first animal sacrificed so humans could live?”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
He cupped Aziraphale’s face, “Darling, you chose them. Time and time again you chose the humans and you chose Earth and now…it’s a part of you and it’s beautiful. I don’t think you were ever meant to be the Guardian of _just_ the Eastern Gate.”  
  
“I see…” He tucked his wings away.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Well…I wasn’t exactly doing a bang-up job of tending to one human child, seven billion is a bit of a step up.”  
  
Crowley laughed, relieved to see Aziraphale smile as well, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be here to help, don’t you worry about that.”  
  
“That’s right, Adam said…neither of us are…I mean, do you think you might go through a similar transformation?”  
  
“Oh Aziraphale…” Crowley let one hand fall from the angel’s face to his chest. With his other hand he snapped.  
Doing a miracle while he was still so very weak made his head spin just a bit but it was well worth it. His hair went from being a frizzy, slightly burnt mess to being silky soft, falling in gentle waves past his shoulders. A bit of mascara, a slash of eyeliner, his favorite shade of lipstick, and some nail polish to match all appeared, perfectly applied. And his singed and dirty clothes from earlier were replaced with a dress he’d never admit to have been saving for a special occasion.  
  
“I already have.”  
  
Aziraphale’s smile was so genuine, it was hard to believe Crowley had ever felt unsure of sharing this with him.  
  
“So perfect,” he said, his voice soft. “Now,” a quiet snap preceded his own small miracle and Crowley stole a glance towards the plant room to see a picnic laid out. “I think we’re long over due for one, my dear.” He placed a hand over Crowley’s, “Why don’t you tell me all about this deadly plan of yours?”  
  
Aziraphale started to lead him toward the room and Crowley squeezed his hand, making him stop short.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing, angel. I just…” He took a breath, then another, willing himself to make it through the rest of the evening without crying _again._ “I love you. I wanted to be sure I said it. I love you so much.”  
  
Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his hand, “And I love you, Anthony.”  
  
On a tartan picnic blanket, in a flat in Mayfair, surrounded by all of their favorite food and drink, surrounded by an array of plants and flowers, sat an angel and a demon. The demon watched the angel study his face, a smile so warm, and beautiful and just for him. He knew him. He knew every part of him and he loved him. And something a lot like hope and a lot like love and a lot like happiness settled warm and weighted and so very human in the demon’s chest. It pulsed through him, it made him smile, it made his eyes tear, it made him hiccup with a laugh as he took the angel’s hand.  
  
An angel and a demon met, not for the first time, in a garden.  
  
A demon and an angel settled in, hand in hand, not for the last time, in their garden.


End file.
